


Silver Sight

by sweetdefault



Series: Consumerism [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Complete, Drama, F/M, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Multiple Realities, Multiple Universes, PTSD, Sequel, There's a lot of flashbacks, This is complete, aftermath of abuse, but only a little so, daedric prince politics, dragonborn is not the main focus, happy endings are things you have to fight for sometimes, heroine is not a dragonborn, smut chapters are marked for convenience, take that how you will, the silver hand gets to have a larger role for most of the story, there is a lot of depersonalization and dissociation that comes up, touches upon daedraborn and a daedric desire and events that took place in those stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 51
Words: 263,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetdefault
Summary: Since her youth, Vinci has been juggled around various outlying groups across the expanse of Skyrim. Her last attempt to get out got her caught and imprisoned by the Silver Hand for ten years. When two Companions break her out as part of a rescue mission saving another member, she is given 'freedom' for the first time in a decade. But it is not freedom, and she is not a Companion. Her roots in the Silver Hand are just the first of many problems she doesn't want to address.Third in the consumerism series.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Vilkas (Elder Scrolls)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Consumerism [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528289
Comments: 99
Kudos: 100





	1. prologue: ten years ago

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys  
> welcome to the prologue of silver sight, pt. 3 of the consumerism series  
> please note the prologue is set ten years prior to the rest of the story 
> 
> if you haven't read daedric desire or daedraborn never fear  
> this is kinda written to be read as a standalone / it isn't NECESSARY to read the other two stories  
> in time... things get explained  
> eventually ships happen  
> canon gets effected a fair bit but this story isn't going off the rails like the other two did so  
> have fun and enjoy, thank you for reading !
> 
> ALSO: tw for child abuse in a flashback

A late winter storm presses on Whiterun Hold’s territory. It is a flurry of snow and beautiful gales of wind; it is a reminder to respect the forces of nature at work across Skyrim in addition to a stark command to seek shelter. Though the call for a _hunt_ beckons, the man gives in to his twin brother’s request to cut their hunt short, stay at an inn, and head back to Jorrvaskr come morning. It isn’t something either are happy with, but Vilkas is _especially_ grouchy by the time both Companions make it to Riverwood. Snow falls heavily overhead when the two finally push inside the doors of the _Sleeping Giant Inn._

It’s packed, but a Hold Guard taking shelter from the wind offers the two his seat. Vilkas takes it without second thought. The Nord huffs and looks at his brother, who stares, sighs, and walks to the innkeeper to arrange rooms. Vilkas wipes snow off his greaves and boots. He brushes snow off long brown hair and makes a note to cut it when they get back to Whiterun. By the time he begins to feel settled, he spies his brother trudging around talking inn patrons and a singing bard.

“They got a single cot.” Farkas states quietly. The man’s eyes look around the room. “Innkeeper, Orgnar, knows we’re Companions. Said he’ll give it for free for the night.”

Vilkas snorts. “Nice of him. You take it, I’ll see what I can do.”

The comments make Farkas raise a brow, but Vilkas stands and pats his brother on the shoulder. “We’re hunters.”

“You expect to find someone willing to share a room in _Riverwood?_ ” His brother isn’t convinced, but Farkas’ always been a bit of a goody-two-shoes. It’s one of the reasons why Vilkas watches over him so much; he _knows_ his brother’s got a soft soul and gentle spirit. Not even the _blood_ can change that. It’s almost admirable, if he wasn’t always busy having to keep Farkas out of hypothetical trouble.

He pats his brother and waves him off. The Companion reluctantly leaves, and Vilkas is left alone in the inn hall. Tables of food tempt him; he gives in to hunger, downing a slab of salmon and multiple rolls before his stomach is satiated. The Nord rips off a hunk of meat from an elk slab. He looks at the sole bard of the inn, a blond-haired man Vilkas can’t remember the name of. His eyes scan the rest of the inn, noting a second innkeeper—or perhaps a maid—as a pretty blond-haired woman in her forties. The age gap isn’t promising, even with the nice face, and Vilkas puts the thought aside and considers his other options.

The Hold Guard from before stands with several other guards and claps merrily to the bard’s tunes. Vilkas looks past him, where his eyes land on a pair of Khajit travelers laughing and chatting between each other. He frowns and continues the search, dismissing person-after-person for some reason or another until he gives up. He’s about to rise, still donned in heavy armor and melting snow, and harass Farkas into sharing the room when one of the inn room door’s opens. The man glances over with disinterest and finds a pair of startingly familiar green eyes peering back at him. His eyes widen and he leaps to his feet while the bard nearby begins another song on a lute. Patrons begin to clap and sing together, mugs of ale flow, and Vilkas pushes past people to get to the green-eyed lady as she strides to the front of the inn and speaks to Orgnar.

When she sits down at the innkeeper’s counter, he sits two seats down from her. She pushes a handful of gold to Orgnar and states courteously. “Milk, no ale.”

“Not a drinker?” Orgnar pauses.

“Not tonight.” The woman is cautious. Vilkas sees it in her figure, constantly looking around and re-assessing others. 

“And for you?” The innkeeper turns to Vilkas and he pauses. Orgnar chuckles and waves off any concerns, “Don’t worry ‘bout money, this ones’ on the house. I remember your faces. You’ve done a great deal for Riverwood.”

“A glass of your best, then.” Vilkas humors the man. He eyes the woman nearby, but finds she stares incredulously at him. He frowns. “I don’t appreciate the looks.”

“You did it first,” the woman replies without pause, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. A scar trails down from her left ear to her chin, dipping out of sight into the fold of her neck.

It irks him that he can’t pinpoint where he’s seen her before. The Companion squints and stares at the lady, unafraid of the gleam in her eyes. She’s a Nord from the looks of things, but a bit of an odd one. Green eyes aren’t the most common, and Vilkas knows for a fact the long, black hair is far more typical of Imperials or even Bretons in comparison to blond, brown, and red-haired Nords of Skyrim. The Companion’s eyes soak up details of the woman: noting her long nose shape, pale pink lips, the faded scars along her body where her dress begins. As his eyes dip down, he swallows at the realization he can see a fair chunk of her breasts. She’s not wearing support, and the neckline dips precariously on the front of the lady’s gown.

It isn’t suitable for the cold, which begs the question of why she wears it. Cultural differences are always a possibility, but something about the lady _screams_ Nord at him.

He inhales deeply and turns to her, ignoring how deeply he ogled her a second ago in favor of saying carefully, “You’re a Nord, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” she frowns. “What of it?”

“I’m a hunter. I like to hunt,” Vilkas takes a glass of ale from Orgnar and sips it before continuing. It isn’t a good flavor, and he grimaces visibly.

Orgnar passes a cup of milk to the woman. She thanks him quietly and glances back at Vilkas, “—I fail to see the relevancy. But I’ll let you humor me: why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to hunt down where you from,” the Companion raises a brow. “You’re a Nord. What village?”

“—I don’t know.” It’s a sincere answer. The woman shrugs amicably. She’s wearing gloves over her hands, ornamental but elegant. Perhaps of some wealth? Vilkas isn’t sure, but he listens when she goes on. “Never did, really. Try not to think of that.”

“A bad mishap?” Vilkas guesses. He swallows half of his drink in a long swig. It burns the back of his throat, but he makes do. 

Behind the duo, the local bard changes tunes. A catchy melody rings out across the inn’s common area while the bard’s deep voice bellows lyrics of a song Vilkas doesn’t know. The green-eyed lady turns to him and pulls off a glove. She smiles courteously and lifts her hand, revealing the back to bear a grotesque wad of scar tissue over her knuckles. The lady slips her glove back on and humors him while he stares, “I was taken from my family as a young lass. Held captive most of my youth by a group of wizards with a penchant for the dead. So, _sure,_ a bad mishap.”

“What group?” The question slips out before he can stop himself, but the Companion’s entire body tenses. He can’t resist the urge. It tears into him, chiseling away at his efforts to _forget_ a past.

“I don’t know. Never got the name. Nasty group, took a bunch of kids like me.” She lifts her drink to her mouth but a drunk patron bumps into her back at the same time. Milk goes everywhere. The liquid dribbles down her chin, her chest, and soaks into her gown.

Vilkas’s eyes widen. “Are you—”

“Oblivion, my luck,” the lady curses under her breath. She shoves her chair back and stands. “Excuse me.”

“Wait.” The Companion stands and meets the lady’s gaze. He frowns. “Your name. What is it?”

“You demand this of every woman you meet?” The woman’s brows furrow. She moves to the back of her chair and pushes it in, tips the innkeeper an extra two gold, and huffs. “You first.”

“Vilkas, of the Companions.” He finishes his drink and looks back, only to stop and stare at the woman’s stunned expression. It humors him. The man smiles and tilts his head to one side, reveling in the attention. It feels good after a long hike through the snow to get some recognition from a lady.

But it isn’t the kind of recognition he’s used to from women. The lady’s eyes grow big and she draws back, a hand goes to her waist where a dagger is sheathed and hanging off a belt loop. The action makes Vilkas stop and reconsider things. _She can’t possibly think to use that, can she? In here? With witnesses, against a man in full armor? This woman—_

“You’re a Companion, of course,” the woman’s eyes narrow. “You’re a _fucking Companion._ ”

The hostility and disdain doesn’t go unnoticed. Vilkas stands and crosses his arms. “Got a problem with the Companions?”

The green eyes give way to a coldness that makes the man flinch. The emerald orbs are furious, absolutely _seething_ in anger, but it feels misplaced. Vilkas growls in warning and the innkeeper nearby takes note. Orgnar interjects with a loud, “You two—C’mon, now, back off from each other, we ain’t throwing fists or knives here. You got problems? Take it outside or tone it down.”

“There’s no problem.” Vilkas says without pause. He looks back to the woman, but she’s already moved past other patrons back to her room. _What an ass._

The Companions are a powerful group of warriors, notorious for their acts aiding people across Skyrim! They are a group not held down by the politics of the region’s civil war, free to act as _they_ see fit. For crying out loud, they have the gift of the _blood_. Vilkas finds himself becoming more and more agitated at the thoughts that run through his head. Though he refrains from voicing the frustration, his mind is a raving tangent. _And she was, what? Gone try to strike me down with a toothpick? Even the whelps at Jorrvaskr could do better! Farkas could knock her off her feet with one swing of his sword! I could cut her down in a second!_

The man winds up knocking on Farkas’ door, unwilling to try and seduce the older blond innkeeper or anyone else for a room. He greets his brother with a tired grunt and ignores Farkas’ grimace. “Fine. Take the floor.”

“Appreciate it,” Vilkas pushes past him. “’apparently one of the other patrons has a grudge against us.”

“…Ah.” Vilkas doubts his brother gives a shit about anything he just said. Farkas’ eyes are as heavy as the bags under his eyes, every bit foretelling of the exhaustion on the man’s shoulders. Even at twenty-four, his twin struggles with the environment and maintaining his energy for long hikes. To the man’s credit, Farkas doesn’t roll over and go to sleep immediately after flopping in the one-person cot. He peers at Vilkas and snorts. “You sleeping in armor?”

“Nah. I can get it off fine,” Vilkas states dryly. “Better question: how you get out of yours so quick?” He gestures at his brother’s night wear, the Nord modestly dressed in a shirt and breeches.

“Quick? You spent an hour out there. It takes ten minutes to doff—” Farkas begins the explanation but Vilkas waves him off. The Nord grits his teeth. “Fine. Figure it out yourself.” He turns over in the cot and pulls the quilt over his body.

Vilkas pries each piece of his heavy wolf armor off and sets it to the side. He occasionally hears Farkas growl at him to be _quiet_ so one of them can sleep, but the man isn’t bothered to quiet down when, just beyond the doors, the call for songs and booze by the local bard and inn patrons continues with a steady volume. Like his brother, he wears thin clothes beneath, the nigh-matching shirt and breeches far from enough to keep out the cold. Vilkas doesn’t care. He scowls when his brother chucks a pillow at his face.

Vilkas puts it under his head and lays down, ignoring the gales of wind and flurries of snow coming from outside the twins’ room. He keeps his great sword in a sheathe beneath the pillow. It may be the thought of the weird woman and her grudge against the Companions, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The man finds sleep comes quickly, and with it a nightmare not unlike the dozens of others that have since caused the bags under his eyes.

Most of the dreams Vilkas experiences are a recurring reflection of the conditions he and Farkas grew up in, up until the day Jergen intervenes and spirits the two to freedom. This is not one of those dreams.

In the dream, he is but a small lad of nine or ten years old, his brother the same age and a fearful mess at his side. The two are held in a tiny cell, but one of dozens lining the long stretch of a walkway. The dungeons are dark and damp. Rats run freely along the floor. Shackles keep the two locked to the back of the cells. He is much shorter and lacks muscle definition. In this dream, Farkas is the same; the two find some solace in keeping to the furthest corner of the cells.

In the cell adjacent the twins, another set of children are in similar conditions. The pair of siblings are older, but only by one or two years. One is a girl with wet blue eyes and shining tear streaks that roll off her cheeks. Her hair is long and black. She continues to weep into the shoulder of a comforting sibling, a child not unlike him or Farkas, whose hair is unkempt and tangled. The only difference is that the boy’s hair is black where his is a dark brown. The boy spies Vilkas’s stare and barks at the child, “Don’t laugh at Leilani!”

“Vinci?” The girl whispers.

“I wasn’t—” Vilkas hears his voice come out as a child’s would. He is _not_ a child, but he still feels like one when he squirms in place and snaps. “I wasn’t gonna! Laugh!”

If the dream reflects the past accurately, his brain considers him to be nine or ten years old in the memory. It is from a time before the Companions, before the _blood,_ and before he found a place to call his own in Jorrvaskr. The child—which he is not, but the dream does not bend control and reflect him as the man he is—grits his teeth. He stares at _Vinci_ and the girl, but mostly at Vinci. The boy’s protective of his sister much like he is with Farkas. Rightfully so, the children are all stuck in a horrible, wretched place full of darkness and foul things Vilkas wished he could forget.

“Better not. I’ll… I’ll bite you if you do.” Vinci mumbles and looks to the side. He stands where he is shackled to the side of the cells. It’s a different take from the other cells: Vilkas notes the dream clearly lays out how each of the prisoners are held. He remembers it incredibly vividly, to a point it nauseates him to think about. His eyes dim and he can’t keep himself from crying.

“Vilkas.” Farkas’ voice is too soft, even as a kid. He’s a meek individual, far from being the Companion he is in the waking world. _“Vilkas!_ I hear them. I hear…”

“They’re coming!” Vilkas says, not of his own accord. The child looks down the corridor, where shapes too big and menacing to be children appear from the darkness. Magical flames blaze in the hands of the tallest one, a tall thing with a mask over their face. The necromancer roars a welcome to the terrified prisoners, and all, Vilkas and Farkas included, flinch and shrink in the cells. The girl of the adjacent cage weeps and weeps despite her brother’s plea to calm down.

“In Namira’s name… a new lamb is offered.” A necromancer, one shorter than the tall flames-wielder, and the individual strides forward with a jingle of keys. For a second Vilkas stares in terror. Fear licks his sides as the necromancers come close, only to pass by his cell and move to the one adjacent their own.

The girl, Leilani, bursts out screaming when the necromancers grab her. Two other mages follow the first and help separate her from her brother. Vinci screams and thrashes against the wizards but the child is small, and they are big. The necromancers easily overpower him and lock the cell door with him alone inside.

“Leilani! _Leilani!”_ The boy screeches and belts each word, eyes full of tears.

The girl struggles against the necromancer that holds her. She sobs and wails and pleads with them to drop her, let her go, stop _hurting_ her, but the wizard ignores her. The magic-user holds her up by the wrist. The person extends a free hand; flames come alive at the tips and dance around the individual’s fingers, as eager for the taste of flesh as they are to burn at the mage’s command. Vilkas feels his small dream-self look away, eyes clenched shut. He holds his breath.

He comes to with a sharp cry and shout directly outside. Vilkas leaps to his feet in a panic and surge of adrenaline. His dream fades away with screams of the other inn patrons. He hears glasses breaking, smells a fire burning, and the man flinches when Farkas grabs him. His brother looks at the door, eyes narrow. Farkas already has a sword in hand. “We got company.”

“No time for armor?” Vilkas growls and unsheathes his great sword, pointing it at the door. The brothers tense as footsteps draw near. A man beyond the door howls and gleaming silver armor comes into sight. The Companions stiffen at the sight of three warriors, each outfitted in ornate silver-steel armor.

Vilkas swallows. The werewolf knows better than to charge a Silver Hand when without armor. Even if the numbers are almost even, and he and Farkas could parry enough to knock heads off, it isn’t wise. He slowly lowers his blade, bidding on the citizen clothes to fool them. Farkas does the same. The Silver Hand swordsmen squint from one brother to another. One looks over the shoulder and belts out, “She’s not in here, Tulle!”

“The guards at the gate said otherwise. Bribes don’t come cheap! I’m not losing her again. Round them up, count heads. We’ll sniff the place out.” The voice that snaps back is feminine and harsh.

Farkas and Vilkas are led out with swords at their neck, where the duo come face-to-face with a horrifying sight. Dead Hold Guards litter the inn, slain and skewered by gleaming silver blades. The Silver Hand is not merely a party of four; Vilkas thanks the Divines he and Farkas didn’t leap and attack the lot. He counts eight Silver Hand and a ninth with exceptionally intricate armor, lighter than the typical silver-steel set found on the werewolf-hunters. The warrior in question is a tall Nord woman with eerie white skin and a ghastly expression seething for blood. Her lips are ruby red, and her hair comes down in a long blond braid to her shoulders. She meets the brother’s gazes and Vilkas bites back curses when the two are shoved into a group of others Vilkas recognizes as inn patrons. He spies Orgnar and the blond innkeeper present among the bunch.

To his credit, Orgnar says nothing when the Nord woman storms to him and lifts him by the throat. The eight Silver Hand swordsmen keep a sharp eye the group. Vilkas’s stomach drops at the sound of individuals pillaging inn rooms. His count is wrong; there are more than nine of the Companion’s enemies. There are at least twelve, possibly more if others exist in the basement, and it is clear a fight will end poorly for him and Farkas if the two try to intervene. Vilkas grits his teeth at the thought. He despises not having control over his life. He despises all who attempt to subjugate the lives of others.

“There’s a lady here,” the Nord woman’s statement cuts through further thoughts. She glares daggers at Orgnar, eyes a dangerous storm of gray. “Black hair. Green eyes. _Long_ scar down the neck. Can’t miss her.”

“—Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout.” Orgnar sputters. The innkeeper’s eyes widen when a silver knife is handed over to the woman.

“Cut him like a pig, Tulle.” One of the Silver Hands advises from a corner of the room. “Make an example.”

Tulle snaps her head at the swordsman in question. She growls lowly. “—don’t give me orders, Emile.”

“It wasn’t an order. More a,” the Silver Hand smiles behind a half-helm. “… _Suggestion._ ”

“Tulle!” Another swordsman shouts from the side, too close to Farkas and Vilkas for the latter to feel comfortable. The Silver Hand draws a long sword and points at the two’s room. “Maison found wolf armor by the bed—There’s a Companion among us!”

 _Fuck._ The werewolf curses in his head. He glances at Farkas, who shuts his eyes and exhales silently.

Tulle grits her teeth. She nods at the other Silver Hands and weapons are drawn. “Well, if we can’t catch a rat then a wolf will do. Does the Companion wish to stand? We don’t have to kill the lot of you should you surrender yourself.”

 _Don’t do it, Farkas. Call their bluff. We call their bluff._ Vilkas eyes his brother and tenses.

Not a soul stands. Orgnar visibly tenses, and Tulle’s sword drifts to the old innkeeper.

“Well. A shame, but we can start with this one.”

“— _Tulle!_ ” A figure drops from the rafters overhead and slams into the Silver Hand nearest Vilkas. The Silver Hand drops under the body’s weight and a gleaming silver sword plunges through the crack in armor where helm ends and the breastplate begins. The individual doesn’t look any different at first, but the woman leaps forward and ducks under the slash of another Silver Hand warrior. She kicks backward and sends him toppling. Two Silver Hand swordsman shout and raise great swords, but Vilkas sees experience in a well-timed retreat. The black-haired woman holds a silver longsword in her hands, and she wears light armor that gleams with the same properties of heavier silver-steel sets.

Farkas opens his eyes and looks Vilkas’s way. His brother nods stiffly at him and glances at the sword on the ground next to Vilkas, courtesy of one dead Silver Hand.

“Vinci, you can’t _really_ be hoping to outrun us forever, can you?” Tulle clears her throat, pulls her visor down, and raises a sword. “We know your tricks!”

“Not _all_ of them,” Vinci— _Vinci?_ —states curtly. She lifts the longsword and begins circling the group of citizens, using them as a barrier between the eleven remaining Silver Hand and herself. “Don’t lower yourself to Krev’s level, Tulle! These people aren’t werewolves!”

 _“One of them has Companion’s armor!”_ Tulle barks back, seething with venom at the prospect.

“It’s common design,” Vinci snaps. “You and I’ve seen bandits wearing the set before, Tulle! Companions aren’t the only ones in this land with the set.”

Vilkas’s hands tense. He doesn’t know whether to lash out and go for a surprise attack, or to wait and hope things settle. A single wound by a silver weapon will be a pain in the ass to heal and there’s _still_ too many for him and Farkas to take out. _And the potential for civilian casualties is real high… Oblivion. This is bad._ He grits his teeth and hangs back, but the tension in his body is wearing on him. His ability to control his _blood_ strains to resist the urge to cut down and slaughter.

“Well! Color me surprised. I didn’t think you cared enough to remember.” Tulle lowers the longsword and stares. “Maybe you still have one more trick up your sleeve—"

A gleam of silver smacks into the back of Vinci’s head. The woman stares a moment before her mouth hangs open and she drops, longsword clattering to the floor. Black hair becomes splayed across the floor with an ooze of blood. The Silver Hand straightens upright and hums thoughtfully. “I’m not patient enough for your conversation, Tulle, no ‘fense.”

“ _Oblivion_ , Emile,” the woman curses a dozen profanities and storms beyond the group of citizens. “Did you kill her? I gave you a single _fuckin’_ order before we came here!”

“Calm your tits,” the man waves off her words. He kneels next to the woman and jabs her in the shoulder, then nods. “I hit her with the flat of the sword. We give her head a health potion and she’ll probably live…” He pulls a red bottle from a satchel at his hip guard. The color gleams in the light of lit torches. Emile uncorks it and drops the barest amount into the unconscious woman’s head wound. He grunts, “Be quick and take out the rest of ‘em.”

 _“No.”_ Tulle’s words surprise the rest of the Silver Hands. Vilkas sees the tension in the men. He shares in some of their surprise. Tulle looks across the room and grits her teeth. “We got our rat. Let’s get her home before someone else plays hero.”

“You serious? You said it yourself!” Emile snaps. “A _Companion’s_ among us!”

“Going against my orders, Emile?” The woman breathes and peers at her swordsman, grip tightening on her own sword. Tulle rises and spits out the words, “ _You disavowing loyalty to the Silver Hand?_ I got room on the spit for both you and the rat back home! Get the _fuck up_ and do as I say before I cut you down like she did to Rul.”

The Silver Hand member picks up the unconscious woman, throwing her over the shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His anger emits in waves of silent, seething rage, but Emile says nothing as he marches past the group of citizens. When the other Silver Hand members follow out the door, weapons still drawn, Vilkas lets out a silent breath of relief. The two Khajit travelers he saw earlier in the evening begin to talk quietly to one another in a language he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t realize how badly he shakes with bloodlust until Farkas puts a hand on his shoulder.

Vilkas grits his teeth. “I’m good.”

“Uh-huh,” his brother rises and offers a hand, which he brushes aside in favor of standing on his own.

Vilkas looks at the dead Silver Hand member left behind. He gives the corpse a hard kick and curses under breath. He hears Farkas talk to Orgnar behind him, offering quiet thanks for not turning either over, but the thought of _thanking_ citizens comes across as nothing short of ludicrous at that second. The werewolf rubs his forehead and tenses when Farkas returns to his side. “You done?”

“What a mess this is,” the Companion wants to kick the Silver Hand corpse again, but he knows Kodlak would look at it as desecration of the dead. He refrains from further disrespect and holds his tongue. He snaps his head at Orgnar and eyes the shaking, sweating innkeeper with a narrow gaze. “They say why they were here? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Said they were looking for one of their own.” Orgnar says softly; he wipes his forehead.

“One of their…” Farkas frowns. He turns to Vilkas. “Why would they attack their own?”

“Same reason we might,” the werewolf rubs his chin and sighs. Vilkas looks away and dismisses the mess of thoughts beginning to uncurl in his head, of names and dreams and people he knows are dead. He pauses at Farkas’ continued stare and sighs again, this time adding after, “They must’ve found a traitor in their ranks.”

 _Even if the traitor was that woman._ It explains why she reacted with such hostility to him before, though some thoughts hang over his head no matter how much he tries to bury them. He could dismiss or ignore the coincidences in features, name, and the brief bit of conversation he held with the woman. His head hurts; he runs a hand through his hair. _I told her I was a Companion. She could’ve pointed me out. Got me killed on the spot. Farkas, too, not hard to put together we’re twins. If she hates us so much then she would’ve done that. But she… didn’t. What does that mean?_

“…Ah.” Farkas yawns and frowns. His hair is a mess. “Doesn’t involve us, then. Right?” The pause is accompanied by a stare.

Vilkas’s eyes soften. He shakes his head. “No… No. It doesn’t involve us, brother. I’ll tell Kodlak when we get back to Whiterun, but this… isn’t important. Just a weird coincidence.”


	2. sing the hurt away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reflections on the past and naps are one of the few ways to pass the time for a prisoner of the silver hand. that is, until a new prisoner arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning this chapter gets pretty dark  
> tw for torture / branding  
> also the flashbacks go over child abuse / very implied child abuse

He is always there to protect her, wrap her up and tell her things will be okay. Her brother is her protector, a safe refuge among scary fish and bullies who don’t understand _no_. When the girl falls, he falls with her. When she can’t climb the rocks that run alongside the river flanking their home, her brother climbs back down and helps her up. When their mothers call them back for supper, he makes sure she gets inside and gets to eat. She tries to share, too, but he often tells her to worry about herself. For a time—it is sweet, the sincere love of her twin brother to accompany the warmth and love of their mothers. Vinci and her are happy playing in grassy fields, picking flowers, and helping their moms run food around the little village they reside in.

She wishes it could last forever.

 _“C’mon! Leilani!”_ The boy cries softly. It isn’t the picture of a happy life anymore; the sky is black instead of blue and flames whip the houses of her friends. Her brother helps pull her to her feet. He’s as terrified as she is, and for good reason: the tall monsters in big robes and masks come from the shadows and purge the ground with a sticky red.

One of the adults called it blood before the monster got them.

 _“But mama!”_ Her eyes well up with tears. _“We got to get mama! Mama’s with the monsters!”_

 _“She told us run, don’t wanna get in trouble. Do you?”_ her brother chides her and picks her up. He puts her on her feet and drags the weeping child along as fires spread and magic zips across the village. Screams ring across an un-torched house and Leilani feels the tears roll.

The monsters drag a young boy that once threw mud at her hair out of the house. Leilani’s blue eyes widen in horror. She flinches and Vinci pulls the eight-year-old closer, huffing and puffing all the while.

 _“—Don’t look!”_ Her brother snaps.

 _“But that’s—Fitz! What they gonna do to him?”_ Leilani begs her brother to tell her.

She knows he doesn’t know. He never knows when the memory repeats in her head, a loop in her sleep and occasionally in her waking nightmares. She feels Vinci’s bright green eyes land on her and, for a moment, the woman imagines what he would look like if he were still alive: tall, slim, with the same messy black hair and watchful green eyes. She imagines if he had lived, if he had only stayed _quiet,_ and she wakes up from the dream with the guilt of a life she didn’t deserve to have hanging off her shoulders.

 _“Oblivion,”_ the woman sighs and sits up. Her entire body aches; the marks left by yesterday continue to sting, but she can do shit for it. The woman looks up but sees only the darkness.

The darkness coupled with the silver shapes of a past that pushes forward.

Vinci’s eyes dim. It’s early in the morning, and she knows a guard won’t be by with a light until an hour past the crack of dawn. The Silver Hand has little use in giving prisoners amenities, and the guards make that very clear in their treatment of her. Most of the people—werewolf or not, it doesn’t matter anymore, not to them, not to _Krev_ or _Tulle_ —brought in die soon enough. She’s been told over and over, time after time, to be grateful for not meeting the same fate. There’s no sympathy or compassion in the words no matter how loudly or softly guards snap at her. She is alive because Tulle hasn’t killed her yet, and one day that will change.

 _It’s going to change. I wonder how often she thinks about it._ Vinci holds her head in her hands. She smells of grime and muck, filth and sweat from unclean clothes and soiled circumstances. It is pure luck she hasn’t come down with a disease capable of killing her yet. Even the dysentery was mild, and that lasted for weeks, with her begging and pleading for more water to anyone who would listen. The woman closes her eyes.

She could try to sleep but sleep only leads to nightmares and dreams she cannot control. The deep bags under her eyes are not mere aesthetic. She can feel her own exhaustion cling to her, pressing and invading every inch of her spirit. It’s a lousy trade-off. She grimaces and flops back into her cot. She sees the silver blob of a rat crawl across the walkway of the dungeons. She envies it, because it is free; she is not. The woman clenches her eyes shut and ignores the pitter-patter of the vermin as it runs into an adjacent cell. The smell of _disgust_ looms in her nostrils. She forces her mind to distance itself from reality, to detach and dissociate from the peril of it all. The tactic is one she learned a long time ago, when she was a girl in the confines of a cage with dozens of other children. _Better to remove myself from the present than suffer in this._

But she’s hungry. Her stomach aches violently and the pangs of hunger ground her back into reality. Vinci sits up and grabs her stomach, wishing it to hush and go away. If she could, she might even try to eat it. The lady’s fared worse in her day, and it could be ample protein.

 _No. No. No. I’m not going to eat myself. Namira can rot in Oblivion with that desire._ She feels repulsive to have even considered the thought. The woman exhales sharply and flinches when a door is opened at the far end of the dungeon. Her eyes widen and she shrinks into a corner. _I haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything._

The silver shapes come into view. She stares silently and counts out four, with the fourth a slumped mess being hauled by whom she confirms are Silver Hand swordsmen. The third guard carries a single torch, but he lights two attached to the wall. The light helps; it makes the silver masses fade and the normal details of the individuals to come into sight. The guard’s silver-steel armor gleams with the glow of the torch flames; the two at the front maintain an iron-clad grip on an injured, bleeding man. The new prisoner looks to be an Imperial in his thirties with grievous injuries. When the third guard stops and fiddles with keys, the Imperial man groans in pain.

“Shut up! Filthy beast!” The Silver Hand swordsman spits on the man. One of the two restraining him gives him a sharp kick to the chest, causing the Imperial to cry out sharply.

The Imperial man is deposited in the cell directly opposite her own. She hides in the corner of her own cell until the Silver Hand guards leave. When they do, they leave behind a single torch to offer light to the two prisoners. Vinci waits until they are gone before she tentatively lifts her head and peers at the cell. The Imperial man hasn’t moved an inch. She can make out a faint silver mass in the darkest parts of the cell, where the man’s limbs are sprawled lifelessly across the filthy floor. Normally, seeing the silver gives her a terrible headache, but she finds it comforting. He isn’t dead, not yet, though she anticipates it happening soon.

An hour later, a guard gives the two water and eggs for breakfast. The Imperial Man’s still on the ground, but he’s pushed and pulled himself to the side. He pushes away the plate of eggs and the Silver Hand cusses him out.

Vinci finds herself curious of the new prisoner. It’s the same as it usually is: someone is brought in, she gets bored or hopeful, and she tries to reach out to the new prisoner. Then they die. It’s happened _dozens_ of times over the past… She doesn’t know how long. She can’t remember.

“I’m not,” it is the Imperial who speaks first, a welcome change from what she expects. The prisoner’s voice is weak and he speaks to himself. “A _werewolf._ ”

“They don’t care.” Vinci states softly.

The man flinches and snaps his head up. She makes out deep laugh lines along his face, and deep brown eyes. He looks tired. So, so tired; Vinci almost considers the possibility he is more tired than her but she quickly dismisses it. He hasn’t been a prisoner for _forever_.

 _Unless he has._ She pauses. Her gaze dims. _I’m not… I can’t judge._

“Hey. You.” Vinci crawls to the front of her cell, navigating past disgusting puddles left when buckets weren’t available. “Who are you?”

The man stares. “Me?”

Vinci grimaces. She won’t be snappy with him. She knows it is the hunger—eggs aren’t as filling, especially when raw—and exhaustion but the woman still feels aggravated. She _won’t_ be snappy with him. She won’t. Vinci lets her shoulders slump and offers a stiff nod. “Who are you?”

When the Imperial hesitates, Vinci feels a small spark of amusement. The man must realize the absurdity of suspecting _her_ of all people, because he sighs. “I’m… I mean…”

“Strange name,” she musters the words. It makes the man cough and snort. Vinci tilts her head to the side. “Vinci. Welcome to the cells.”

“Vinci.” The Imperial repeats slowly. He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, then scrunches up his nose in regret. “I’m Rune.”

“Strange name for an Imperial.”

“I get that a lot,” the man states softly. He rubs his forehead and grimaces at the woman. “How… long you been here? Vinci? Can you give—”

“A long time.” Vinci cuts him off.

Rune furrows his brows. “So—”

“You don’t get out of here.” Vinci shrugs amicably. She looks away. “People never do.”

She’s genuinely started to hear his weak snort. Vinci does a double-take to see a crooked smile on the man’s face. He exhales slowly and looks at his gut, where blood appears to have ceased pouring out. The man closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah. But most people aren’t a _Dragonborn._ So who is—Who’s laughing now?”

 _Dragonborn?_ Vinci can remember the name, heard in whispers and fables told by her mothers to herself and her brother a time upon a time. Legends of the _Last Dragonborn_ arriving to Skyrim and saving it from apocalypse permeate bedtime stories. She can even remember some of the words of the Dragonborn song, sung by the village bard, Kriseld, whenever the kids asked… _She had a beautiful voice._

She can’t remember enough to know what being _Dragonborn_ entails, but the Nord feels a faint ping of loyalty develop in the pit of her stomach. The old stories leave a mark, and though she is not the fearful child she was before, she carries the influence of those few years of happiness before monsters in masks came and took her away. Part of her feels horror at the thought, because to acknowledge the importance of a _Dragonborn_ —if the man even speaks truth—is to acknowledge the Dragonborn’s impending death. No one gets out of the Silver Hand’s dungeons alive. She’s a prisoner, and she knows one day death will come for her as it has the rest.

 _But you’re the legendary hero. You’re going to save Skyrim._ A tiny, innocent part of her begs to think such idealistic thoughts, a breath of optimism against her dim outlook. She parts her lips and watches the man. “…What does that mean for you now?”

“I have no idea.” The Dragonborn—Now she has another predicament, to call him by the title _Dragonborn_ or to address him by the name Rune—frowns. “But they don’t know. It means something. I’m not letting them kill me easily.”

“I doubt they would take you prisoner if they knew,” Vinci pinches the bridge of her nose. She shuts her eyes. “…Tulle and Krev are smart, lad. They wouldn’t let a legend live.”

“You know the names of the leaders?” The Dragonborn sounds surprised.

Vinci wonders if she’s said too much. She turns her back to the bars.

“Wait! Wait, Vinci,” the Imperial calls across the dungeon. “I need to know!”

“Their names?” The woman sighs. For a legendary hero, the guy talks a lot, and she isn’t sure her patience can last the conversation when she still aches for food, warmth, a bathe, _everything_.

“I’m a Companion!” Rune snaps.

Vinci stills. Her eyes open and she exhales softly. “Figures.”

“What does that—Nevermind,” the man grits his teeth. He relaxes when Vinci looks over her shoulder at him. “Listen to me. I don’t know how you know them—But the Silver Hand’s been threatening my group a long time. Running raids, kidnapping citizens of Whiterun—It has to stop. If you have any information on their leaders—We’ve been stretching all our resources dealing with them. People are getting hurt.”

Vinci’s eyes dim. “I… don’t think you want someone like me for that.”

“Why not?” Rune challenges the claim.

He’s a feisty prisoner. Vinci isn’t sure if she likes him or not. She looks forward and leans her head against the bars. Her eyes slowly drift to examine the ceiling. For a moment, she swears she sees silver shapes in the darkness high above. Her head suddenly throbs and she grimaces and looks back at the ground; the woman clutches her forehead and hisses softly. “Because—I am a Silver Hand.”

She hears Rune fall quiet. _Sorry, Dragonborn. I am not a hero. You will tarnish your reputation._

“Why are you in here?” The question is more direct. When Vinci looks back, she’s surprised to see genuine concern in Rune’s gaze. He’s not simply curious or intrigued; he’s worried, as if he actually cares for a prisoner he just met.

Vinci frowns. She will oblige, because he is a supposed legendary hero. “I didn’t agree with their ways.”

“Go on.” Rune sits upright and watches her.

“There is a man named Krev. He is very influential, perhaps more so than Tulle. He… Decided to take no chances on a family of suspected werewolves. Slaughtered them, including the children,” the woman grimaces at the memory. She had felt nauseous for hours when she first heard of what her former lover did. “I thought… the Silver Hand was a group of hunters banding together to fight against the onslaught of Daedra resurging across the realm. I thought prevention of lycanthropy was a goal. I was naïve. Then I wasn’t. So I… left.”

Vinci leaves it at that, because to give too much is to open herself up, and vulnerability is a dangerous, terrifying concept. She is already vulnerable as it is, a prisoner of former allies for a time she cannot measure. She only knows time passes because her black hair continues to grow, occasionally cut off by force by one of the guards in hopes of humiliating her. The woman frowns at Rune’s continued stare. The Dragonborn is nothing if not attentive. He pauses and asks, “Would you leave if you could?”

“I tried that. Did not work.” Vinci gestures at the cell around her.

Rune nods. “Right. Well. Can you tell me anything else about the Silver Hand? You claim to be against them. My group is against them. Perhaps, if we both got out of here—"

“I am not leaving these grounds alive. The Silver Hand made that very clear when they caught me,” Vinci feels exhaustion weigh on her. Too much talking is too much energy spent on not trying to make time pass faster. She returns to her cot and lays down, ignoring the Dragonborn’s protests. Eventually, even Rune quiets, and she can find sleep.

In the time that follows, she and Rune see each other often. Sometimes the guards come to bring food and water, and rarely one might give a new chamber pot or bucket, but the world is otherwise routine and dreary. Hope dies in the darkness. Vinci finds she cannot stand to look at Rune too long, because in the dark the silver aura of his life radiates and pulses in her mind’s eye. The sight gives her a horrible headache. There isn’t much need to look at him, either, because things rarely change and eye contact is often followed by Rune initiating a brief conversation about trying to break out. Vinci doesn’t dissuade him, she simply offers honest input but otherwise refrains from comments. She cannot remember the world outside; only the haunting dreams and nightmares offer a glimpse of outside, save for the crack in the ceiling where air flows in with occasional sunlight.

Part of her wants him to live. She fears for him when guards come by, if only to patrol or bring food. She feels her body tense when Silver Hand swordsmen speak. Other prisoners come and go during this time, but unlike herself and Rune, they are quickly disposed of in torture rooms if not abruptly executed. The screams can be heard despite the floor between the torture rooms and the dungeons. Vinci clamps hands over her ears and pretends not to hear. She feels familiar panic crawl up her spine when one scream dips especially long, and muffled pleas follow. The woman leans off her bed and retches until her most recent meal is on the ground. A rat scurries to it and she lets the vermin feast.

A familiar face comes one day, when the crack of the ceiling shows no sunlight and the rats hide in the corners of the cells. Vinci is awoken to the sound of boots storming down the dungeon corridor. She snaps awake and fear trickles back in. She backs to the corner of the cell. Across from her, she sees the faint silver shape of Rune sit up in his cot. The light of the torches causes the silver shape to fade from her sight as a man flanked by four swordsmen comes stomping down to the two’s cells. She recognizes him immediately: he is a Breton with curly black hair and a short nose. His left eye is badly scarred over while his right is a gleaming hazel.

 _Emile._ She had hoped he died off at one point, killed by Tulle if not exiled from the Silver Hand for insubordination. The man never did right by her, even when she proudly called herself a Silver Hand. He is as good as rot underfoot, a terrible plague one cannot get over.

The man wears heavy silver-steel armor. His pauldrons gleam, white and brilliant against torch light. He fishes keys from a ring at his belts and extends them to another swordsmen. The Silver Hand takes them, finds the correct one, and hands them back. Emile smiles widely at the Dragonborn’s cell. “Companion. Your time is up.”

Rune’s face drains of color. He grits his teeth and makes to stand. “I’d prefer not.”

“Oh, you don’t get a choice in this,” Emile waves off the man’s words. “Our commander is in a merciful mood; you can die quick and easy should you answer our questions. Or… we can cut the words out of you piece-by-piece. Mm? What do you say?”

“I’d tell you to rot in Oblivion, but the place’s too nice for any of you.” Rune barks the words. He tenses when Emile walks to the door.

“In that case… we will have to take a few precautions.” Emile whispers.

Three of the four remaining Silver Hand members pull out bows. Arrows with serrated silver arrowheads are notched and raised.

 _If he’s actually a werewolf… Like Tulle once spoke of the Companions… He’ll die._ Vinci leaps to her feet, stumbling to the side of the cell and crashing against the wall. The noise draws Emile’s attention, and he holds up a hand while she grits her teeth and drags her weak form to the bars. She grips them and stares out at Emile, meeting his smug, calm smile with teeth and hate. _“Emile._ ”

“Speak of the Daedra.” Emile whistles softly. He walks to her cell, head tilt and eyes eager for blood to spill. “You’ve had better days, I take it?”

“Any day,” she snaps. “—Is better than a day with you.”

The man’s gaze darkens. “You could’ve said any number of things… Vinci. Anything to make me _happy._ Play it up a little! Satisfy the ego! I wouldn’t have given two shits of you here. But you’re stepping out of line. Talking back in front of my men—”

“They are _Tulle_ ’s men!” Vinci barks.

“We’re all Silver Hand here, Vinci. Don’t fool yourself into thinking Tulle’s different than the rest of ‘em. All of us are here under the _same_ emblem. Perhaps… You need a reminder of that,” he pauses. “Jaqch, Tyrulan, help me take our old friend here to the forge. Bavlo, Amure, get the fires going. I think Vinci needs a reminder who is in charge. It’s only fitting—She was once Silver Hand—So she should have our emblem on at _all_ times.”

“What of the Companion?” One of the swordsmen speaks abruptly.

Emile shrugs. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

Vinci’s eyes widen. The words don’t click until the door’s open and she’s being grabbed, pulled, plucked from the cell she’s considered a degree of _safety_ in the mess of horrors. She screams and struggles, but the woman has no muscle mass. Her thrashes and squirms are useless. Her body convulses of its own accord, sparked into a frenzy of terror and panic, paranoia and fear. Emile says something to her on the way, but she can’t process the words when the world is a haze of things going wrong and helplessness. She’s dragged up a set of stairs to a chamber open and wide, full of smoke, and though she thinks she sees weapons and armor of the Silver Hand there is no way to obtain them. She’s held back by two men while Emile pulls free a silver knife and walks to her.

Behind him, two men shovel coals beneath a furnace. The men nod at Emile and he smiles. “Are you afraid?”

Vinci screams and weeps and curses when he cuts away part of her blouse, exposing her stomach and abdomen. One of the men dons a thick glove and lift a long metal brand. The woman can’t do more than stare with teary eyes as Emile steps aside and waves the man forward. The glow of red-hot metal is all she makes out before the man moves forward. She begs them to stop but the metal presses against her skin. Her screams become pitches of endless agony, a cacophony of nausea and pain. She doesn’t know how long it lasts, but her body goes limp in the grip of the swordsmen. The pain lingers even after the brand is retracted, the welt open and ugly across the flesh of her stomach. Emile stoops low to examine it.

“Hmm,” his words bring new tears to the woman’s eyes. “No, no. This one’s not right. Try again.”

“Please don’t,” she whispers.

“Shut up—” A commotion from outside makes Emile and the other Silver Hands pause. Emile’s eyes narrow and he gestures at Vinci. “You two stay with her. Amure, Bavlo, with me. Don’t fucking touch her until I get back. _Not without me_.”

Her mind feels very detached. The grip of hands on her loosen when she hears footsteps fade. She can feel the pain, somewhere, but it is distant. She wonders if she is even alive at that point; her body doesn’t feel like it is _her_ body. The woman welcomes darkness when it comes, even if it brings another dream with it.

She is in a cell again, a small and fearful girl surrounded by cages on cages, cells upon cells, and enough bars to smith a full suit of armor. The monsters come from the Far Door, the only escape at the end of the long hall that leads to the dungeon. In the dream, she cannot see the silver of others. In this dream, things are dark and shadows hide vermin and scared children like her. Of what little she can see, the monsters stick out the most: tall and dangerous, hulking and monstrous, they are each adorned in strange masks of repulsive nature. Each monster hides their body begin thick robes. On this occasion: they push a crying boy forward, a thin Nord younger than her and vaguely familiar. She recognizes him as one of the twins from the cell adjacent left her own.

 _“Next one.”_ A monster rumbles. A child is ripped from a cell and dragged away screaming.

Though the footsteps fade and the monsters leave for their feast of wickedness, Leilani watches the boy in the left cell. He weeps. She can smell the burnt flesh from where she sits in the corner of her cell. Her hand has one too; the mark of the group of monsters that took them from their homes. The back of her right hand bears the same grotesque injury. The young girl’s eyes water at the thought. She wants her mother, her mom, and Vinci. She wants to go home and pick flowers, play games, and listen to the river roar.

All she hears is crying.

 _“It hurts, Vilkas,”_ the weeping child sobs against his brother, clutching his hand. _“It hurts!”_

 _“I know. I got one too.”_ His brother speaks softly. 

Leilani hears the pain behind the words. She heard it from Vinci before the monsters took him away. The child— _Vilkas_ —tries to be strong for his brother, like Vinci once was for her. Her eyes water at the thought. She rises to her feet. She’s grown taller in captivity; her head bangs the roof of the cage. The youth pulls against the manacles locking her to the far side of the cell. She strains and leans as far as she can to the twin’s cell. The movement causes both youths to flinch backward, with Farkas cowering behind his brother.

Vilkas’ eyes lock with hers. _“What? What you want?”_

Leilani freezes. She’s afraid.

_Vinci wouldn’t be afraid._

She holds up her hand to show the two boys. The girl’s blue eyes dim _. “Me too.”_

 _“So? What about it?”_ Vilkas snaps. He reminds her of a wolf, fighting until the end.

Leilani swallows. She thinks about what Vinci would have done, the words he could have said if he was the one trying to comfort her instead of Vilkas to Farkas. Her manacles dig into her ankles but she pulls against them anyways. They don’t give. The child lowers her head and looks to the side. Her mind traces many thoughts, so many of them happy until they finally aren’t. There’s a mess of memories but in the depths is a story she heard from Vinci shortly after the two had first been dumped in the cells.

 _“Mother used to sing the hurt away.”_ The girl whispers softly. She looks at Farkas. _“She sung… She sung for Vinci. He said he’d sing for me. He sung mom’s song. I know how to sing it.”_

The boy looks at her with big, wet eyes. His cheeks are stained with tears. But he doesn’t say no, or snap at her like his brother does. The two must be no less than a year younger. She feels bad for them, even the mean one. She feels bad for all the kids. She isn’t strong and she isn’t brave like Vinci was, but she tries not to show it. The girl looks to the side.

 _“One day we’ll be free, runnin’ through the trees,”_ She starts in a whisper, as terrified of the monsters hearing as the rest of the children. But she sings to an audience of fearful kids, as lost and afraid as she is. _“Full of life, full of life… If the nighttime comes, an’ we gotta run, look for each other and wait for a sun. When I gotta go, if it’s dark, if you’re alone, look to the stars where the spirits call home. You’ll find me there, looking for our song; in the trees, in the trees. One day we’ll be free…”_

She doesn’t remember the rest of it, but she whispers it when her throat hurts to sing. It isn’t automatic, but she sees and hears Farkas relax. She sees the boy’s shoulders slump. When the girl can’t remain there further, when she must draw back to the corner where her ankles are shackled to the cell wall, she pulls her knees to her chest. She meets Vilkas’ gaze, big and bewildered. It makes him look funny, which is better than him looking like he’s in pain.

 _“It…doesn’t hurt so much.”_ Farkas mumbles from the side.

 _“Are you like,”_ his brother speaks seriously. Vilkas stares at Leilani. _“You are like… One of those stories! Of the dragon priests!”_

 _“I’m not a dragon priest,”_ Leilani doesn’t know what a dragon priest is but she thinks it sounds scary. She looks to the side and wraps her arms around herself. _“I’m not… I’m not…”_

Vilkas points a finger at her. _“But you can do the stuff with your voice!”_

 _“I’m not.”_ The girl repeats softly. She regrets saying anything at all, because the attention makes her face burn in embarrassment. She shuts her eyes and tries to shut it out. She doesn’t want the attention. She doesn’t want stares. She wants to hide behind Vinci and let him handle it.

_Vinci’s dead._

_“I want to go home.”_ She whispers to no one.

When Vinci wakes up, she comes to in the arms of a stranger carrying her. The grip is rough and with little concern if she slips or falls. She struggles to process any of the details of the… she doesn’t know if it was day or night. She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t know. She hurts. Her stomach aches with a horrible, wretched pain. She tried to find strength in her body but her limbs have very little. The woman manages to creak open her eyes; she finds a unique chest piece staring her in the face. Ornate inscriptions of wolf-like figures and faces decorate the beloved armor. It’s in solid condition, as are the pauldrons and rest of the armor her eyes can see.

“North of Whiterun. We’ll be at Jorrvaskr long before dusk, if you’re scared of the dark.” The armor belongs to a Nord, who talks as he strides forward under a bright blue sky. The color and light are so permeating she scrunches her eyes shut in pain.

“I—I am _not._ I did not say that. Did I say that, Ria?” The second voice is one she recognizes. It is the _legendary Hero,_ the one and only Dragonborn, or so he claimed back in the compound. The man is still alive; her earlier actions had purpose.

From behind, she hears a loud snort. The voice that follows is feminine but obscene. “I didn’t listen to a fucking thing you said, brother. Still waiting on that _thank you_ for saving your ass.”

The sigh that follows is long and drawn out. “ _Thank you_ for saving _my ass._ Happy?”

“For now.” Ria laughs.

Vinci tries to open her eyes again. She manages to withstand the sunlight longer this time. The sky—the _sky_ —is a pretty blue hue. She doesn’t know how else to describe it beyond _pretty,_ or _beautiful,_ or even _majestic._ It’s been an eternity since she was underneath it. Her eyes water in joy. It is full of long streaks of puffy white clouds. Occasional birds fly overhead and soar with the breeze. The trees dotting the ground have beautiful, vivid leaves. For once, she is not cold and damp and dark. She feels _warm_ in the sun, carried around like a sack of potatoes—but a very content sack of potatoes. 

“She’s awake. Rune, Ria,” The words make Vinci freeze. Before the time spent in a dark cell, she would have been on to try and struggle and squirm. Her ‘fight’ instinct has long eroded to _freeze_ and in the rare occasions it doesn’t happen, she tends to be _flighty._ She isn’t a fighter, not anywhere.

When she looks up, she finds the individual holding her has stopped in his steps. His eyes gaze down, attentively seeking out any hint of trickery or deceit. Vinci can’t help but stare at the pale brown irises; they’re lighter than any eyes she has ever seen before. Something about them is repressive: she imagines what stories they could hold, what secrets are held back, but she isn’t privy to receive more than a cold gaze. The warmth of the sun isn’t enough to melt the Nord’s stoic expression. He has thick bags under his eyes. Vinci doubts he has gotten a good nights rest in weeks.

The man pauses. His brows furrow. He’s an interesting individual; almost clean-shaven in the face, but with faint stubble. His hair is a mess of dark, dark brown, a vicious contrast against his eyes. Her stares are easily noticeable; the Nord’s gaze hardens and he states, “I don’t appreciate the looks.”

Vinci’s voice is a raspy croak, “You did it first.”

It’s not what the former Silver Hand intends to say, but it comes out before she thinks through the words. Her eyes shut again. The world felt so warm a second ago, but now it reverts back to cold, to hunger, and to weakness. She feels her body groan in pain at the injury on her abdomen.

“Oblivion.” The Nord carrying her curses quietly under breath. “It’s becoming infected. Ria! Rune! Take note; red lines mean the infection spreads. Red is inflammation.”

“I’m not a _whelp_ anymore, Vilkas.” Ria’s growl is loud. “I know about injuries!”

“We should take her to the temple—The one in Whiterun. They have a healer there—” Rune’s voice is almost nervous. She doubts he genuinely cares. Not even she cares; the only thing on Vinci’s mind is pain. The Dragonborn clear his throat. “Vilkas—Vilkas! Don’t give me that look; you can hate magic all you want later. This needs restoration magic—”

“She’s a Silver Hand. Only reason to carry her back is information,” the Nord replies dryly. “Doubting that decision right now.”

 _“Fus!”_ The shout rips through the air, a presence of great and intense magicka following the sound. It’s loud enough to force Vinci to remain conscious, and it lasts long enough for the woman to squirm and clutch her side in pain. She feels Vilkas adjust his grip on her; he does not intend to let her fall, but the man isn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Rune… You need another talk with Kodlak about doing _that?”_ Ria sounds nervous.

“Hey! I’m _the_ Dragonborn! That counts for something,” Rune rebukes the statement. “And I don’t know _why_ —But that _Silver Hand_ intervened for me. On _my_ behalf. I don’t believe she’s like the rest of them. Neither should you, Shield-Sister.”

“Vilkas, if this is the thanks he gives, I’m skipping on saving his ass next time.” Ria snaps.

“Point made,” Vilkas stops near the sound of horses.

Vinci is _elated_ to open her eyes and see the animals haven’t gone extinct yet. She attempts to sit up or get free and she finds the attempts are immediately shut down. Vilkas is stubborn; he keeps her still. Vinci doesn’t push her luck with the man or his patience. She watches silently as she is handed off to Ria, a dark-haired woman who looks younger than she does, probably. The Companion absentmindedly messes with her hair while Vilkas climbs unto one of the horses.

“Hand her to me,” the man instructs Ria. “Facing front. I don’t want that injury gettin' worse than it is.” 

Vinci groans in pain when Ria gets the woman’s shoe stuck on the edge of the horse’s saddle. A few minutes later, she is riding front of Vilkas _the_ Companion. He’s very close to her. It gives her a feeling she can’t quite explain. When his hands slip past her waist and hips to grab the reins, she leans against him. The man’s body tenses; the wait for for Rune and Ria to get on a horse is unbearable. When the duo are saddled, Vinci feels and hears Vilkas whistle sharply before his horse breaks into a trot and heads off. The sunlight begins to feel warm again. 

"Thank you," Vinci shuts her eyes. She smiles faintly in spite the circumstances. Technically she is no freer now than in the cell, as one group wants her imprisoned for her actions once upon a time, and the other group only keeps her around for a source of information, but part of her remains optimistic. She lets her breathing settle to the tune of, "...Vilkas."


	3. series of coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kodlak wants to speak with him. the conversation turns him into a babysitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW there's implications and talk of past child abuse !

In the training grounds of _Jorrvaskr,_ a duel is taking place. Training mannequins flank the duo and provide silent company.

“Gotcha!” The woman’s voice rings out, full of mirth and ego befitting only a woman named _Ria._ The flat of her blade clangs off his great sword, hitting hard enough to force him a step back. His eyes narrow and he takes note of her form: right side open, left capable of bringing up that pesky longsword high enough for a block.

The man hesitates. _Point it out or show her in action?_

Action is his decision. He feints being staggered more than he is, letting his grip loosen on the blade and a sigh to fall from his lips. The Imperial woman before him is full of grins and sass; it is nothing more than typical Ria, and perhaps her best quality, if only due to the fact it humors him. He doesn’t let it show this time. Vilkas’ brows furrow; he waits until he catches the tension in Ria’s arms, the turn of her feet, then the man barrels forward. Ria hisses and draws her longsword up, but it is shrugged off by his larger blade. The intention isn’t to strike her but demonstrate where her form is weakest. Vilkas pushes the longsword up and shoves her off balance. He easily carries through in the same motion; while Ria flubs and flails to not fall off her feet, the momentum of his parry carries the sword higher. He slowly lowers it on her right side while she stares.

“If this were a fight,” Vilkas states slowly. “You’d lose an arm. Bleed out in minutes.”

“ _Oblivion_. You couldn’t have said that instead of making a show of me?” Ria growls and shoves the blade away with her own. “In front of _everyone?”_

The man pauses. He straightens upright and looks over his shoulder. In the shadows of the mead hall Jorrvaskr, just beyond the back doors and lounging, are three Companions. Vilkas feels only a slight ping of guilt. “Your cockiness warranted it.”

“This is why I said I wanted to train with _Aela!_ She’s a woman, she’d understand,” Ria huffs. The dark-haired Imperial sheathes her longsword and walks to the others, refusing to give Vilkas further attention. His pale brown eyes follow her to the shade of the mead hall’s outdoor common ground. He sheathes his great sword and makes out the faces of a Circle member and two of the Companion’s newer members.

The faces he knows well, with one being particularly notorious among the entire Circle at this point. Rune is not a Companion he takes lightly; Vilkas has yet to live down losing a fist fight with the man when the Dragonborn first joined four— _five, now_ —months back. Though the man is a strong fighter and knows his way around a short sword and dagger, his place as _Dragonborn_ demands both respect and caution. Vilkas does not entirely trust him; he knows better than to put an entire basket of eggs in one nest and actions regarding the Silver Hand proved that. The whelp has much to learn in terms of restraint and timing.

The next is a woman, mid-conversation with Ria. The slender, muscular Nord Njada Stonearm is a woman with a wicked appetite for hunting. If she wasn’t such an asshole all the time she might have earned a place in the _Circle._ It is an occasion where Kodlak’s thoughts mirror Vilkas’s own: a person incapable of making level-headed decisions cannot be transformed. The _blood_ is too much, and in recent time both have come to view it as a nuisance rather than a _gift_. Keeping the number of werewolves down is imperative.

The third is a man identical to him. Vilkas pauses and stares at his twin, surprised to see him so complacent and quiet on a brilliant summer day. Normally, he’d expect the man to be out hunting a bear or sabre-tooth. Farkas dons his armor, but he sits in a wooden chair and eats neatly off a plate of baked salmon and potatoes, all courtesy of the Companion’s unofficial caretaker, _Tilma._

 _Hope she’s been well. Haven’t seen her much lately._ The man frowns and glances across the training grounds. His eyes trail up to the northern end of Jorrvaskr, where stairs dip behind a curve of rock to climb the way to the Skyforge. He can hear Eorland Gray-Mane smithing away even at a distance; the Skyforge thunders and rumbles with each clang of the smith’s hammer.

“Look who it is!” Rune greets the man with a smile. “You went hard on Ria.”

“Don’t remind him!” Ria snaps from the side. She picks up a flask of wine and greedily drinks it down, wiping her lips after. She turns to Njada, who is less than impressed. “You wanted some?”

“Not anymore.” The Nord snaps.

“A shame.” The lady’s grin is wicked. Ria’s attention turns to Farkas. He hesitates mid-bite and lowers his fork. Her eyes leer at the food on the plate. “—You gonna finish that?”

“Yes.”

“You _sure?”_ Ria raises a brow. “I’ll wrestle you for it.”

“—Oh, Vilkas.” It seems Vilkas’s timing is convenient enough for Farkas to rise to his feet. The man reluctantly shoves his plate at Ria before turning to his brother. Farkas pauses. “Kodlak wants to talk to you.”

“He say why?” Vilkas frowns. He has a suspicion of the topic, but it is better to confirm something than go off thoughts.

“Silver Hand.” The words make Njada and Ria freeze. Even Rune, lounging in a chair and cleaning his short sword, stops and looks at the twins. Farkas sits back down in a chair adjacent Rune’s. He looks to the side. “And…”

Vilkas’ brows furrow. He dislikes the cryptic nature of Kodlak’s words sometimes. He needs things to be straightforward: blunt, and logical. The man stares at Farkas to go on.

Farkas unclasps a gauntlet and slides it off. He reluctantly raises the hand to Vilkas, keeping it turned so only his brother and Rune can see the back. The sight of hyper-pigmented scar tissue over Farkas’ flesh brings bile to the back of Vilkas’ throat; his eyes darken and he grits his teeth, “He really thinks it has something to do with that?”

“He wouldn’t mention it if he didn’t. Right?” His brother hesitates. For a moment, Vilkas sees a sliver of the scared child in his eyes. Almost twenty years later and the memories have yet to leave either of the two.

 _I will never be that helpless again. I will never let anyone do that to us._ Vilkas swears, as he has many times before, until the sentiment calms the concoction of anger and guilt in his stomach. _One day we’ll find the monsters who did this to us. To… all the others._

But that day is not today. He is not capable of reaping vengeance on monsters in masks when he doesn’t know who or where they are. Vilkas begrudgingly looks to the side and sighs. “I’ll figure that out. You plan to be at Jorrvaskr all day? I know some of us were talking up a hunt this morning.”

“A _bear_ hunt, thank you.” Rune interjects. The Imperial man squints at Vilkas and ignores his glare. “It is!”

“I’ll be here.” Farkas answers. He gives a nod to back up the words.

In Jorrvaskr, the mead hall is full of activity. Walking inside, Vilkas makes out Aela the Huntress laughing and drinking alongside Skvor. The two Circle members look happy together. He briefly debates interrupting them to ask where Kodlak can be found, but the latter makes up Vilkas’ mind for him. While other Companions continue throughout their day, the white-haired and aging elder of the Companions, can be found at the far end of the mead hall, where the stairs to the living quarters dips below the eating area.

Kodlak Whitemane is a man with stories to tell and few words to say them with. He dresses in a suit of wolf armor, nigh-identical to Vilkas’s own save for obvious signs of age and wear. The illustrations of wolves pressed into the metal of the suit are especially beautiful.

The man is in good spirits when Vilkas stops at his side. Kodlak’s eyes carry a twinkle of life that contrasts the man’s deep wrinkles and long white beard. His gray hair is combed back with a small braid running along the left side of his head. “Ah, Vilkas.”

“Harbinger,” Vilkas greets. “You wanted to talk?”

“I did.” Kodlak gestures for him to follow. Vilkas walks after the man down the stairs and into the living quarters of the Companions. It is a wide area that hides beneath the mead hall, with candles and torches lighting the area. A fireplace can be found at the very end of the common area, where a chimney reaches through the ground. Vilkas recalls seeing the top of the chimney emerge at the far end of the training grounds; it is a clever use of architecture and space.

There are two wings to the living quarters. The eastern wing is for the whelps, or new members of the Companions. Most of the Companions sleep in the bunk hall among cots and thick fur blankets. Stubborn members, like a certain Dragonborn, claim to find the floor as comfortable as the cots. The cabinets and shelves, armoires and wardrobes all provide a space for the Companions to stash their gear. The shared living space sometimes prompts disagreements or quarrels over misplaced objects, but it is nothing that can’t be settled over a fist fight and bottle of ale or cup of mead.

But that isn’t where Kodlak takes him. Vilkas is guided to the west, where the quarters of the Circle members are abundant and kept clean and tidy by kind Tilma. The old woman is present sweeping Skjor’s room when the two pass; Vilkas sees her smile and wave. He can’t help but nod back in acknowledgement. Kodlak stops at his room and pulls the door open for Vilkas to go first; the man steps through and glances across the chamber. Nothing looks out of place since he last joined Kodlak for a discussion. When Kodlak takes a seat at a table in the corner, Vilkas sits nearby and crosses his arms. He watches the elder patiently.

“I appreciate you joining me. I find these walls offer peace that the mead hall cannot.” Kodlak pours himself a cup of mead and holds it out to Vilkas. The man takes it, but doesn’t drink.

“Farkas told me,” Vilkas begins. He stops at Kodlak’s faint smile. His brows furrow and he stares. “Harbinger?”

“It is about the Silver Hand, yes, perhaps not quite the conversation you thought we might have. The Silver Hand member you brought in. The one at the temple.” Kodlak pours his own drink. He holds it up, and Vilkas brings his glass up to tap it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Vilkas drinks. The liquid burns the back of his throat, but the taste is palatable. He leans back in his seat and eyes Kodlak.

“I know that look,” the old man’s smile fades. “I’ve spoken with the other members of the Circle, Vilkas. We do not need to call a meeting. Besides, meetings are not what the Companions are about. We are not here for _politics._ ”

“The Silver Hand isn’t political. They want our skins. They nearly took Farkas’s and Rune’s.” Vilkas frowns at the memory.

“This is true, but right now you are thinking of the Silver Hand as a _group._ I am discussing one member. Rune said she calls herself Vinci.” Kodlak tilts his head to one side. His eyes are as stubborn as he is, because they hold back sentiments, words, and meanings. “Tell me what you think of her.”

“She’s Silver Hand. Not much to say.” Vilkas grunts.

“That’s not what I am asking. What do you think of her? What do you think should be done with her?” The Harbinger sits upright and finishes his glass. He pours himself a second and pauses.

Vilkas sighs. He doesn’t enjoy how Kodlak tries to dig out meanings that aren’t there. “She is… apparently… a Silver Hand. She was also a prisoner. When we found her—She had a fresh brand across her stomach. Fresh as in… applied minutes prior, Harbinger. But she is still a Silver Hand! Her perception of us will do her in. We cannot trust her.”

“Perhaps not. But that is why I ask for your thoughts.” Kodlak nods.

“You aren’t convinced.” He observes.

“Not entirely,” Kodlak shrugs. His armor clinks with the movement. He crosses his legs and pauses. “I agree that she cannot be trusted right away. But according to Rune—She has demonstrated action where words would not suffice.”

Vilkas pauses. He sets his drink on the table and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t like to consider it, but he quietly admits. “Rune said… She spoke up when the Silver Hand came for him. They were to shoot him full of arrows. It would not kill. He is not of the _blood_ —But the Silver Hand—She did not know that.”

“A reason to intervene.”

“Having one doesn’t prove she can be trusted.” Vilkas’ eyes shut. The thought gives him a headache, almost as much as the rest of the impending conversation he _knows_ Kodlak intends to have. The thoughts are a nuisance. He has worked on forcing the past back, keeping it at bay, and all of a sudden the Silver Hand and one of its members forces its ugly head to rear. _I am still weak. Letting it wear on me. I need to train more. Practice. Practice._

It dawns on Vilkas that the room has grown quiet. When he looks up, he finds Kodlak watches him intently. Vilkas frowns at him. Kodlak hesitates. “…There was a hunt years ago, Vilkas. One that would not cross my mind if not for what you told me on your return. The incident at the Sleeping Giant Inn… with the Silver Hand.”

 _You did it first._ The words become very clear in Vilkas’ head. He can recall the Silver Hand member saying them on the way out of the compound, when he thought she uttered nothing but delirium. The infection would have set in by that point; Vilkas hasn’t forgotten how hot her skin felt that day a week ago. She had to have been delirious, or fever-ridden. Vilkas can’t help but blurt the words, “That was a decade past—Silver Hand doesn’t keep prisoners alive that long.”

“What are the odds they did, though? Versus the odds a Silver Hand of identical stature and _name_ comes into the picture. If it isn’t—This is a grand series of coincidences. Perhaps a dabbling in fates,” the Harbinger thinks aloud. He shrugs. “I say it because it is of relevancy to you and Farkas. You two came from a dark place, carried by—”

“I prefer we not discuss him right now.” Vilkas’s voice grows quiet. He looks to the side.

“Ah, of course. My apology, Vilkas,” Kodlak pauses. “It is… simply an observation. You mentioned at the end of that hunt, when you and Farkas came in from the snow, you had a look on your face. You said you thought you knew her—”

“I was wrong.” The man stands. He inhales deeply and fights back the old feelings of nausea, of guilt, of pain that come from the memories. Vilkas grits his teeth. “The woman… She had _a_ mark on her hand. But that—Many groups leave marks on their prisoners! On us! She—She might have _something,_ but that is not—It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. Those children are dead. Farkas and I—We saw it on the way out. We saw the bodies… The rubble… They…” He hisses and wipes his eyes. He is _not_ going to cry. He will not weep. He has wept too many nights, endured too many nightmares, and lost too much time to reflect on the lives of those that didn’t make it.

He doesn’t run. Kodlak’s eyes remain on him; Vilkas can feel the man’s stare. He hears the Harbinger offer a quiet, “My condolences. I thought… if it was the case, Vilkas, perhaps—Perhaps the group could be found. You and your brother are due justice. But I was wrong.”

“Vinci—Vinci was a boy there, sure,” Vilkas confesses through clenched teeth. “He—The cell right of us—Ours—He and his sister—And those _bastards_ took her—And he stopped them. He,” the man’s hands shake. He hates the feeling. He hates how alien it is to feel the emotions, to want to cry, to find such pain still exists under his carefully-built carapace. Vilkas shakes his head. “—They took him instead. When Jergen saved Farkas and I—We found the boy’s body. It was preserved. Part of an old ritual, Jergen said. And his… Eyes… were ripped out.”

“How horrible.” Kodlak states under his breath.

Vilkas’ shoulders slump. “The time between his death and then… It was a long time, Harbinger. They kept his body so long. _For what?_ Further desecration?”

“What happened to his sister?” The Harbinger clears his throat. “Vilkas.”

“I don’t know. Dead, probably. She was taken before we were saved. Her name was Leilani.”

Kodlak stands. Vilkas glances back. He’s surprised to see the man’s eyes are soft, remorseful, not full of hidden meaning for once. It is a meaningful sentiment. He nods in appreciation of it.

The Harbinger strides to Vilkas and pauses. “Could the Silver Hand member brought in be her?”

“No.” Vilkas shakes his head. “Vinci had green eyes. Leilani had blue. It is nothing but… as you said—a grand series of coincidences.”

“Indeed. A grand series of coincidences,” Kodlak holds his tongue a moment, but he decides to further the conversation. “Then… If that is truly the case… You and your brother have no connection to the woman. You have no reason to be biased, beyond the fact she is or was a Silver Hand. Good. Good. I have a favor to ask of you, Vilkas.”

The man turns back to face Kodlak. He eyes the Harbinger carefully, with a noticeable gleam of suspicion that makes the white-haired elder chuckle softly. Vilkas takes a moment to inhale deep breaths and calm himself. Memories of the past are merely that: the past. He survived. He is no longer a child. He is a strong, capable, fierce and respected warrior of the Companions. _I can handle myself._

“When I spoke to Rune—He mentioned this Silver Hand spoke names of individuals as if she knew them personally. Leaders. That information is… if the Silver Hand continues to take actions against the civilians of Whiterun and surrounding territories… It is invaluable. We need it.” Kodlak clears his throat. “To put it simply, Vilkas. I am asking you to keep an eye on the woman brought in. We are not… a group that uses the same tactics as illegitimate factions across Skyrim. We are not the _Brotherhood_ , may they sink into ruin. But if she speaks freely—If she is willing to talk—I would like you to be there to ask questions.”

“None of the other Circle members can do it?” Vilkas purses his lips.

Kodlak smiles and shakes his head. “You were one of the ones who carried her out. I have faith in Ria and Rune, but more faith in you. Can you do this, Vilkas?”

“I…” Vilkas stares and considers it. He has nothing to be afraid of; the woman is simply a possible source of information. Nothing more. He grimaces and turns away. “Alright. I’ll play sitter.”


	4. from all the monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day one of 'babysitting' is not going to plan. it starts with a temple and ends surrounded by coffins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied past child abuse in a flashback-y sequence in the hall of the dead (catacombs part)  
> hopefully that part isn't confusing... i might need to add an explanation on that part in the next chapter if it is  
> but for now here is another chapter from vilkas' perspective 
> 
> as an aside if you have read daedraborn's epilogues  
> you might see a familiar face lurking around :0

Vinci isn’t at the temple. Werewolf senses be damned, the scents of too many people mingle together and make a mess of tracking her down. Vilkas waits a whole five minutes before one of the priests shoo him away, a reluctance to have a respected warrior next to the ail and ill. In part, it amuses the man; he wonders what the followers of Kynareth would say if they suddenly knew he was afflicted with lycanthropy. They would probably lock him up and keep him quarantined for days until the Circle finally got Kodlak to intervene. The priests and priestesses of Kynareth are good-hearted, kind people, but the degree to which they act sometimes steps over the line of what Vilkas is comfortable with.

Maybe that explains why he wanders Whiterun, tracking a faint whiff of _Silver Hand_ on the breeze. If the woman got fed up with what the temple was trying to do, she might have opted to skip out on town—But that makes it _his_ problem. He _has_ to find her and he has to _talk_ to her. The thought annoys him, but he will buckle down and do it anyways for the sake of the Companions. These are the thoughts that pull him across the town, walking through the three districts of Whiterun whenever a new gust whips the scent back into his nostrils. He lands the trail he needs once the winds stop mid-noontime, following the path of his quarry around outer streets of Whiterun before doubling back to the shops.

He is almost impressed at her mobility. Maybe Kynareth’s followers have too much enthusiasm, but either they know their shit or the Silver Hand only employs capable individuals. Vilkas dismisses the thought immediately; no Silver Hand is _capable._

The man finds her in the middle of the Wind district, the second-highest district of buildings and shops in the town. He doesn’t recognize her at first. The priests and priestesses of the temple have given her new clothes, far from the rags the Companions find her in. The woman stands around the walkway bordering a massive, dying tree Vilkas vaguely recalls as the _Gildergreen_. She’s washed—thank the Divines, the scents of the Silver Hand compound made him want to retch—and dressed in a copy of the yellow robes the followers of Kynareth don. Her hair has been braided and hangs down her back.

It disturbs him how much she looks like Leilani from behind. Or—What he thinks she might have looked like, if she lived. The years have flown by since those times. He feels guilt at the desperation that boils in the pit of his stomach, all to forget the wretchedness of those memories and the horror that comes with them.

Vilkas inhales deeply. _Leilani is dead. All those kids are dead. But I’m not. Farkas isn’t. Things will stay that way._

“Silver Hand,” the man greets Vinci with a sharp tone. He holds his tongue when he sees her flinch. “You weren’t at the temple.”

“Were you looking for me?” The woman frowns.

 _Divines help me, this is going to be a nightmare._ He inhales slowly and wishes for mead. He understands Kodlak’s line of reasoning but that does not mean Vilkas agrees. Farkas would have been a far, far more patient person to deal with a clueless woman found in a cell.

Vinci stands in a strange way, Vilkas notes. The woman seems to have her head constantly bent to one side. It makes him frown. “Why are you doing _that?”_

“Doing what?”

“With your head,” Vilkas sighs. He counts three so far.

The man finds it painful when he attempts to imitate it; to his relief, Vinci appears to understand what he asks about. The woman straightens upright and looks to the side. Her cheeks flush pink. “Old habit.”

“I figured,” the Companion sighs, four and counting. “The question was why, Silver Hand.”

“—Vinci. My name is _Vinci.”_ Her tone becomes defensive.

“Vinci the Silver Hand.” Vilkas crosses his arms. “Why you do that?”

“—That’s…” The woman trails off. She shifts her weight from one leg to another. Vilkas can see her gaze dim; he is an attentive man and details don’t escape him. When her eyes flicker back to the Gildergreen, he waits expectantly for her to tell him _why_ or to tell him to shut up. To his surprise, Vinci does neither. The woman pauses and asks. “—Do you know how to cook a squash?”

It is the Companion’s turn to stare. “A… squash?”

“Yes,” The woman’s shoulders slump. “A _squash._ Or—Do you call them gourd? I don’t remember.”

“I do not,” he answers honestly, still shocked the topic of a squash came up. It was not what he expected, and he expects many things that occur. It is part of the anticipation of being a warrior; the battlefield demands it. It doesn’t demand squash, apparently.

“Oh.” Vinci frowns.

“Why do you want to cook _squash?_ ” He doesn’t admit to intrigue.

“It’s been a long time since,” the woman holds up fingers. Vinci begins to count out the years under breath, stopping at ten. She holds up both hands, fingers and thumbs outstretched. “I think it’s been ten since I was outside. Since I had real food.”

Vilkas’s eyes widen. He picks the words very carefully, because he does not want to influence the answer. “…Ten what?”

“Years.” Vinci lowers her hands.

Vilkas finds himself grateful she wears gloves, because he cannot handle returning to thoughts that _aren’t true_ again. Hope is too whimsical, too _magical_ for his tastes. The man considers what it could all mean; ten years is a long time, but it fits with the narrative he remembers. It is more than likely Vinci is the same woman he met at the Sleeping Giant Inn. To think she never escaped or broke out again is a foul thought. He could not live being imprisoned again so long; the thought alone prompts nausea and anger in the pit of his stomach. _Never. Never will Farkas and I find ourselves in that position. Never. I’ll die before it happens. Before I let it happen to us._

That means Kodlak’s implications were partially right. Vilkas makes a mental note to relay the information back to him sometime.

He comes out of his thoughts to the realization the woman watches him. Vilkas’s brows furrow and he states curtly. “I don’t appreciate the looks.”

“You did it first,” Vinci states.

Vilkas sighs for the sixth time in one conversation. “Stop saying that.”

“…Alright.” Vinci turns to the Gildergreen.

 _But if you’re the same woman from the inn… You are a lot less feisty than back then._ Vilkas frowns. “Do you still know how to use a sword?”

He is reluctant to call it progress, but Vinci’s reaction changes the mood of the conversation. The color drains from the woman’s face. She keeps her gaze forward and her expression sullen. Vilkas doesn’t miss how she begins to do the head thing again, though she is more conscious of it and constantly stands back upright in an endless cycle of self-corrections.

“You remember me.” The surprise is genuine.

“Well,” Vilkas shrugs. “You fell out of the ceiling and drop-kicked a guy. Hard to forget. You had a grudge against the Companions but… that makes sense now. Accordin’ to the whelp, you still hate us.”

“That’s—I did not say that,” Vinci protests. She eyes him more intensely than before. “I don’t… hate you lot. Not anymore. Even if you are—” She flinches when Vilkas clamps a hand over her mouth. The man gazes around the Gildergreen’s walkway, holds a finger to his mouth, and releases her. Vinci frowns. “Is it that big a secret?”

 _“Yes,_ ” Vilkas snaps the word. He regrets it afterword, but it gets the point across. He lowers his arms to his sides and grimaces. “What you say to the whelp? Rune isn’t always a good word-of-mouth to go off of.”

“He wanted to know information,” the woman frowns and looks up the trunk of the Gildergreen. “I told him I was not the right person to help him.”

Of the many things Vilkas expects of her, the excuse is far more abysmal than the kind of dramatic, cooked-up excuse he thinks a Silver Hand should have. It is the second time she has taken him by surprise, third if tracking her to the Gildergreen counts. Vilkas doesn’t enjoy taking numbers. He squints and asks quietly. “Is that all?”

“He—Do you not believe me?” Vinci snaps her head to look at him, mouth ajar in disbelief. “You think I have reason to lie? I’m in Companions territory—The Silver Hand wants me dead! What do I have left to lose? I already lost everything!”

 _A little bite left after all._ Vilkas sighs. The count goes to seven. “Is that all?”

“Yes! It is all—All I remember,” the woman frowns. “He is… He is the Dragonborn, right? That man. Rune. I might not know a lot of the legends of the land, but I know a little about the _Dragonborn._ He’s the legendary hero destined to save Skyrim! He has a reputation, right? A reputation of a hero. The Silver Hand… it isn’t that. I see that now.” Vinci grimaces and holds her head in her hands.

The motion makes Vilkas pause. He eyes the woman carefully, looking for any hint of a lie or deception. He finds none. The Companion glances around before asking. “Are you okay?”

“No,” the woman states. She cracks open an eye and looks at him from the side. “It’s all silver. It’s all silver.”

 _Okay._ Vilkas stares. He does not have a response for that.

“The tree,” Vinci turns away from it. She sighs and straightens upright, taking a moment to consciously fix her head thing before glancing at him. “Nevermind.”

She begins to walk off, and Vilkas stills a moment at the fact she does. His gaze narrows and he follows her, catching up to the slower steps with ease. The Companion sticks to her side as the woman trudges around different shops and vendors under the warm Skyrim sun. She displays a sincere curiosity and eagerness at listening to different vendors talk about their wares. The enthusiasm for simple trinkets and even the most mundane cuts of meat makes Vilkas reconsider her past words. _She said ten… years. Not being out of a cell for ten years…_

It hits too close to home for Vilkas to be comfortable with. He despises how her circumstances make it easy to relate to the Silver Hand. He reminds himself constantly, even as he watches her ask questions and hear merchants out, that she is an _enemy._ The woman is not trustworthy. He is there to gather information, not make friends. Once Kodlak is satisfied with whatever the Silver Hand shares, he can go back to Jorrvaskr and drown himself in mead.

“The squash?” The words of a newer vendor ring loud and clear across the plaza.

Vilkas stiffens and looks over at the stall, where a woman in her mid-thirties is holding up a squash in one hand and gourd in the other. She stands behind a stall dressed in a spectacular two-hued dress split by a line of buttons down the middle. The extravagant get-up makes Vilkas cringe almost as much as he does at the fact Vinci stares in awe at both vegetables. It is obvious the vendor picks up on the woman’s lack of experience handling merchants; Vinci stands still, head tilt to the side ever-so-slightly _again_ , and nods occasionally at the vendor’s incessant spiels.

“—This is a _summer gourd,_ extremely rare and said to be one in a hundred every year in the fall harvest,” the vendor drawls on with her sales pitch, squash tucked under arm so she can hold up the green gourd with a hand while simultaneously waving at it. Her eyes are a devious brown, almost red-brown in color, and locked on Vinci’s form. “I happen to have one of the _few_ left for the entire season! The entire season, yes, and _you_ my dear could be one of the lucky folks to cook this summer gourd in stew! Or, perhaps, if you are _truly_ interested in squash and only squash, I have the fine selection of an _entire_ single squash for sale.”

Vinci’s eyes carry a delighted gleam to them. “An entire squash… A summer gourd… How much are they?”

 _…Is this woman really the same from ten years ago? A Silver Hand?_ Vilkas pinches the bridge of his nose. He sorely regrets agreeing to keep an eye on the woman.

“Fifty gold.” The vendor hums merrily and runs a hand through dark hair. She smiles with a grin that is too aware of the over-the-top sales price. Even if the customer is a Silver Hand, Vilkas cannot tolerate the scalping of item prices. Too many innocent people lose money on the practice and he has no patience for criminals and conmen.

“’Scuse me,” Vilkas clears his throat and strides to Vinci’s side, eying the vendor with a cold gaze that he has long-since mastered. The Companion’s eyes narrow. “What was the price again?”

“Oh! Oh,” the vendor picks up on his unhappiness. The strange woman looks from one side to another then back at him. She hefts her gourd in one arm, squash in the other, and musters a, “Why—Why you’re one of the Companions, aren’t you, dear?”

“Vilkas of the Companions, yes.” The man crosses his arms and stares. His presence in the plaza has noticeably drawn a few stares from other customers and vendors of the area, and for good reason; his reputation precedes him and he intends to capitalize on it.

“Do you have fifty gold?” Vinci turns to him. “I want the squash.”

His brows rise. “Why—No. I do not carry gold on me, Silver Hand.”

“But it’s an entire squash,” the woman frowns. “I haven’t had squash in ten.”

“I am not giving you—” Vilkas sighs. He is not tolerating the thought. He was _not_ tolerating the thought to begin with. He looks back at the vendor. Vinci’s statements have taken any momentum he had in the conversation away, because the vendor looks perky and calm now. He grits his teeth. “Can you spare the squash? Asking fifty gold is a lot.”

“Why,” a gleam twinkles in the vendor’s red-brown eyes. The woman grins and clasps her hands together. She looks across the plaza and hums thoughtfully. “ _Of course,_ Vilkas, _Vilkas_ of the _Companions_ , I would _love_ to give you and your beloved a squash!”

The man stares. “What are you—”

“ _Of course! I would love to help out the Companions!”_ The vendor shouts out the words. It’s drawing a crowd and making him nervous. The man tenses and looks over his shoulder. He can see the eyes and feel the stares. As the vendor goes on, Vilkas feels the self-consciousness set in. “—I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s only right after _all_ you’ve done for Skyrim, Companion! I’m so happy to hear about the _wedding!_ ”

In a second the plaza comes alive, spurred by something that is far from natural. The feeling of magicka and madness impedes the werewolf’s senses.

A whistle comes from the side. The meat-vendor, a bosmer with a long brown beard and soft steps, calls out from his stall. _“Good on you, Vilkas!”_

 _“Oh, is the dear lad getting married? What a sweetheart_ ,” an old jewelry merchant agrees with the ruckus.

 _“Companion! Heard you’re taking an arrow to the knee, son,”_ an arm wraps around his shoulder and Vilkas finds a Hold Guard chatting him up like the two are old buddies. _“Congratulations! None of us thought ya had it in you!”_

The people in the plaza swarm. Comments become lost in a sudden burst of chaos as people pour out of the buildings. Customers and vendors alike nigh-tackle the man to give their congrats or shout snarky comments. The sounds are overwhelming; it all becomes an overstimulation on his already heightened werewolf senses and the man hisses and grabs at his head. He shoves one guard away, but two more guards join in on grabbing his arms, linking them, and belting out merry tunes. Hands grab his armor and the man feels himself being pulled and yanked different directions as more and more patrons try to seize him and give thanks.

It comes to a head when the alchemy shop saleswoman tries to open a potion and throw it in his face. Vilkas snaps and howls, “ENOUGH!”

The people in the plaza freeze. He stares at each of them. His face drains of color at the realization he can see detachment in their faces. It is the same kind of hopelessness he has seen before, in one of dozens of children from his youth. The sight is nauseating. He stumbles backward and passes where he was once certain a cart and vendor lay. The man narrowly avoids tripping in the process. He holds the contents of his stomach down and breathes out slowly. _I’m not… I’m not a kid. I’m not a kid. This is… magic. This is magic. I’m not a kid. I’m a Companion. I’m a Companion._

He is a Companion, and he was supposed to be doing something. The man shifts his thoughts to the damn Silver Hand with a string of internal curses. He scans the plaza and grits his teeth at the realization the woman isn’t there. _‘Course she avoids the fucking madness!_

He is more than pissed. Pissed would describe him on a good day, and the day is far from good. Vilkas sucks in a deep breath through his nostrils; if the lady’s tried any tricks he will cut her down himself. Kodlak might see reason to keep her alive, but magically enchanting a group of citizens goes beyond any mercy a Companion should offer someone of _that_ nature. Silver Hand’s are no good; he should have known from the weird things she said and the stares she gave the tree. She must be a magic-user; how could the Companions overlook that? The thoughts gradually build to a bitter, angry loop as he follows the scent of the woman from the Wind District plaza to a building tucked on the far side of Whiterun.

It is the Hall of the Dead and possibly the last place he wants to venture into, especially with a _magic-caster Silver Hand_ running rampant. Vilkas has half the mind to go back and drag another Companion with him—and he should, any smart Companion takes a Shield-Sibling with them to battle—but he holds concern for the citizens of Whiterun. If _one_ Silver Hand could enchant and influence the minds of so many citizens at once, then not acting now might give the opportunity for the woman to slip away. She probably intended to escape from the start; maybe use her “imprisonment” as an excuse to try and find something out about the guard patterns of Whiterun or the number of Companions residing at the Jorrvaskr.

 _I won’t let you get away from me, Silver Hand._ The Companion runs a hand down his hair and smooths the unkempt locks before he lets resolve spur him forward. He approaches the Hall of the Dead, uncertain whether to find a dead priest on the grounds or not, but he hopes for the best.

It is an old building flanked by a graveyard. The building itself has old walls that hold their own history. When Vilkas shuts the door of the building behind him and glances at the walls. Old, dusty banners hang from the ceiling. A shrine to multiple gods can be found around the corner and off to the side. Candles offer little light in favor of natural sunlight pouring through a glassy skylight. The sight is gloomy but not unpleasant; to the left the man hears snoring and he scrunches up his brows in confusion. Vilkas unsheathes his greatsword and hefts it with both hands as he peeks around the corner on the left side. He makes out a tired old man in long gold robes, sprawled across a couch-like piece of furniture with a necklace of Arkay around his neck.

The Companion keeps his sword in one hand and silently approaches the priest. When he taps the man on the shoulder, the priest snaps awake with a startled cry of, “I’m here! I’m here!”

Vilkas squints. “Priest Andurs?”

“Why, Vilkas, I’ll be!” The wrinkly man’s face lights up. He pushes himself up and makes to stand but gives up half-way and sits instead. The priest of Arkay nods at him. “I did not take you to come here for a casual stroll, Companion! What brings you to our Hall of the Dead?”

The Companion bites his lip. He can’t up and outright shout out he is a werewolf tracking the smell of a magic user. Vilkas takes another route in wording his problem, “Did a woman with black hair and green eyes come by, Andurs?”

“A woman with black hair and green eyes? Why, give me a second to think,” Andurs rubs his chin and beard thoughtfully. “I may be _old,_ but even I remember that lass… Yes, I do believe she came by. Looked white as a ghost! But she wasn’t a ghost, not yet. Didn’t say a word to me. Just walked into the catacombs. I really should lock those doors…” He trails off, but the words linger in Vilkas’ mind.

He dislikes how unnecessarily complicated things are, because the statement makes him reevaluate his thoughts. He is not usually hotheaded, but the plaza experience called for it. _That doesn’t mean I’m making a mistake in my judgement. I felt it. There was magicka… Someone used magic on those people. And that vendor… No, no way the vendor could have done it. Could she? No. No! My attention was on her. I didn’t see signs of spellcasting! Only one I didn’t watch was Vinci. It had to have been Vinci._

 _But,_ his mind argues back. _If that is the case—Where did the vendor go?_

Something is amiss. His temper impedes his judgement, but he cannot risk his assessment is wrong. He won’t take risks with a magic user. He refuses to acknowledge his own rash actions when magic is involved, not until the threat is eliminated. Vilkas glances back at Andurs and frowns. “The catacombs. Can I go inside?”

“If you want—” Vilkas does not wait for the priest’s spiel. Permission is enough; he wanders to the catacomb doors and pries them open. Like the priest said: the doors are unlocked. A great staircase leads into the depths of the dim-lit catacombs.

Vilkas sucks in a breath and descends. The pungent aromas of preservative oils, medicinal herbs, rotting flesh, and _Silver Hand magic-user_ reek in his nostrils. The man unsheathes his great sword and holds it up as he slowly rounds corners and climbs down more and more stairs. The catacombs of the Hall of the Dead are not arranged in labyrinth fashion; the hall splits into two corridors that connect at multiple points. Stairs slowly drag a person down further across multiple levels of neatly-arranged sarcophagi and coffins. When the man has walked the third set of stairs the sound of soft crying reaches his ears. He sniffs the scent of salt in the air; it is real, not just faux tears to lower his guard.

The werewolf grits his teeth. He hears the sounds grow as he draws nearer, each step of his silent as a person in heavy armor can be. The man stops when he finds the trail grows strongest around a corner, cutting into an indent of the current level of coffins. He can smell the faint aroma of a squash mixed in with the other scents. _Why did she bring the squash? To throw me off guard? Not happening._

When he rounds the corner and takes aim, the scene is not one of the Hall of the Dead. The catacombs melt away. He sees a shaking figure clutching a vegetable to her chest, curled up in a ball and wedged as far back into the corner of one indent as physically possible. The figure’s robes fall dreadfully around her, grimy and laden with dust and dirt that leave noticeable stains. Her eyes are bloodshot. She is crying.

The clang his sword makes when it hits the ground is loud and rancid. His ears ache but the nausea in his stomach takes over any intent or resolve he once possessed. Vilkas can’t think of words, so he stares.

 _“Be quiet,”_ the woman begs. “Or the tall monsters will come back!”

“The tall…” He can’t think clearly.

It is a flashback, he knows, but awareness of one does not pull him out of it. He feels small again, a child in big armor trying to act tough for Farkas. His hair stands on the back of his neck. He needs to hide. Kids look out for each other; if someone tells him to hide then he must hide. The man’s eyes spin around the room in desperation, but the coffins are too big and his armor too confining. He feels cold sweats break out over his body. He turns back to the shaking, trembling figure in the corner.

“Can I hide with you? Please,” Vilkas pleads. His eyes water. He doesn’t know where Farkas is, but Farkas is smart. He knows how to hide. Vilkas is the one who needs help hiding. He finds himself crying at the panic that sweeps his form, locking him in the emotions of a child enthralled in terror. “Please! Before—Monsters come back.”

The woman hesitates. She doesn’t want to share her hiding place. Vilkas knows a good hiding place is worth more than a kid’s life. In the distance, he hears strange footsteps. The man begins to breathe heavily and he snaps his head at the woman. His eyes beg for him, big and round and fearful.

“Okay,” the woman relents. She scoots to the side of the indent, giving just enough room for Vilkas to crawl into. It is a squeeze, but he fits against her. The squash in her lap jabs him in the side. Though she doesn’t look at him, she speaks in soft whispers. “The silver keeps moving.”

“The silver?” If it is a name of a monster, Vilkas might cry again. He shakes in place.

“Everyone has silver.” The woman says. “Everyone has the silver.”

He does not feel better at the words. Vilkas begins to cry again. He holds his face in his hands and tries to muffle the noises, the terror racking down his spine in chills.

“It’s okay,” the woman breathes next to him. Vilkas looks up and sees the wet, teary green eyes of the girl. She is as scared as he is. He stares at her between his own sobs. He flinches to the side when she puts a hand on him and repeats the words. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. The monsters won’t find us.”

“They always find us,” he argues. “No one gets out.”

He sees Leilani’s eyes water. The boy freezes when she wraps arms around him. He feels weak crying, alone and without Farkas, but in his mind he is a boy no more than thirteen. He is tired of trying to hang on. He is tired of suffering in the darkness. When soft, faint words are hummed to his ears, he holds his breathe and shuts his eyes. He remembers this. It is her mother’s song, taught to her by her brother, the one she sings to the kids of the cages when there is pain. Sometimes, when she is the one in pain, he sings to her instead. He never does a good job, always fumbles the words, but she always says it helps.

When the song ends, Vilkas remains afraid of the world. He feels the warm arms around him, as terrified of the monsters as he is but brave enough to try and comfort him. The boy remembers it. The man remembers it. In the confines of darkness, he held and holds an admiration for the soft-spoken girl who cries more than he does. He once made her a promise. His pale brown eyes open and he looks to the side, where the Companion sees the lookalike of his dead friend wrapped up against him. Vinci is not asleep, but she is disoriented.

 _Still in the… flashback. Of what? How do you know about the monsters?_ Vilkas’ eyes are still wet. He wipes them and shifts his position against the woman, letting her fall against his arm. He can hear her faint hum, barely audible against the sound of his heart pounding frantically in his ears. _You’re not Leilani. You’re… You’re…_

“You’re Vinci.” He whispers. “You aren’t… her.”

 _But you remind me of her. She may be dead. But you’re not. Not yet. Not yet._ He feels the thoughts flick a switch inside him, the man suddenly aware of how vulnerable the situation is. He can hear every ragged breath, smell the salt on every tear, and feel the desperation for closeness, for something to give a semblance of comfort or _hope_. He doesn't know how he could have ever considered cutting her down when it is now clear she needs the opposite; she needs someone to help lift her up. Vilkas exhales softly. His mind is a tangent of many, many things, but the clearest to him is resolve. It is fresh and unknown, scary of its own accord and overwhelming to some degree, because it means stepping out from what he is comfortable with.

“I’ll protect you, Vinci,” The Companion swears by it. “From all the monsters.”

His words have some effect, because the woman grips his arm tightly and clings to him in the dark. The Companion shuts his eyes and calms himself. He needs to talk to Farkas and Kodlak, because the Harbinger might be right after all, even if Vilkas isn’t sure _how_ yet.


	5. what we are now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci isn't any closer to becoming best friends with the companions. in some ways, she feels more distant from them than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW they talk a bit and mention past child abuse and stuff
> 
> also thank u everyone who comments  
> all of you are so nice and it is so so uplifting and encouraging to see new comments  
> (heart)

The light of _Magnus_ high overhead provides ample sunlight and warmth across the whole of Whiterun. Summer is a beautiful time, and while she can’t remember what the other seasons are like, she is certain she will come to appreciate them for what they are when the time comes. It is under the expanse of soft white clouds and sunshine that Vinci sits cross-legged, silently watching the work of one much older man. The blacksmith of the Companions, Eorlund Gray-Mane, is a muscular man with long white hair and leather armor. His eyes are a deep gray, befitting the name, but Vinci finds they often look so dark they might as well be black.

He is a man constantly at work: Eorlund is considered by many to be the best Blacksmith in all of Skyrim. Her presence does not deter him; when she first sits nearby and watches the man he gives only a glance before continuing. The clang of his hammer is loud but oddly soothing. Though Vinci expects it to leave a headache, she finds the consistent strikes against metal to hold some familiarity. During the years as a Silver Hand, she recalls Reeves demonstrating the group’s forge. The flames terrified her—she cannot forget how she was branded, marred by a monster in a mask on the back of her right palm—but the shaping of metal itself was enchanting to witness.

That, and the Skyforge _reeks_ of silver. It is the second time an object in Whiterun has demonstrated the same qualities found in the darkness: where there is life, there is silver, but the silver hides from the light—until now. The Skyforge and Gildergreen both stands out in the woman’s mind no matter what part of Whiterun she goes. Witnessing it up close, daring to look at the powerful silver shape of the forge and the man who works it, it leaves her in awe.

 _It’s alive. It beats like it has a heart._ She pauses and straightens her head up. The damn bent thing is irritating her ever since Vilkas asked of it. She doesn’t like it. She wants it to stop. It is a reminder of the time passing in captivity: she was among monsters in masks until fourteen or fifteen years of age. Being stuck in the small cells left quirks on her growing body. She makes a note not to pace around the Companions; the last thing she wants is for them to drill her with questions about why she only paces the rough length of her cell.

 _I probably can’t do that for a while, anyways._ The woman’s eyes dim. _What was I thinking yesterday?_

Most of the day is a blur, time lost after a strange vendor in a bizarre dress called her over. Vinci’s head hurts to think about it. The flashback she experienced that day was horrible, perhaps the worst she has ever had. She vaguely recalls the panic and hysteria that set in followed by her bolting from the plaza. After that, the memories merge into a mess of emotions she cannot process. She recalls coming out of the flashback in a place that reeks of the dead and strange silver shapes.

 _And he was there._ She feels her head do the bent thing again. It is a conscious struggle to correct it, frequently straightening upright despite the strain on her back. The woman looks to the side, where the front of Jorrvaskr can be seen with occasional Companions entering or leaving.

Yesterday, after the nightmare of the past dissipated, Vilkas had taken her to the mead hall and left her in the care of an older woman named Tilma. Come evening, she was given a cot to use in the _whelps hall_ , an area for Companions outside the circle. She did not sleep much that night. Aside from the dreams, she did not feel comfortable with the eyes of suspicious warriors trained on her. Even now, Vinci is not comfortable. She recognizes her place among the Companions as a prisoner. She is tolerated because she has use.

 _I wonder what autumn is like here. I bet the leaves turn colors. Are they silver, too, when they fall?_ Her brows furrow in thought at the possibility.

Directly behind her, off the raised bluff the Skyforge rests upon and down in Jorrvaskr’s training grounds, she spies a white-haired man stepping outside the back doors of the mead hall. He is not someone she knows, but he looks familiar in ways she cannot recall. He has many wrinkles and a white beard against graying hair; she wonders if he is the _Harbinger,_ the closest thing the Companions have to a “leader.” She remembers how the Silver Hand spoke of such figures: wrapped up in tales of trickery and cutting words, capable of unwinding one with a sentence and bending them to fit the Harbinger’s will.

The elderly man looks up. Even at a distance, she feels his eyes lock with her own. Vinci freezes in place. _Stop it. Stop looking at me. Stop it!_

The man smiles faintly and gives her a small wave. He turns to someone at his side, partially blocked by the older man’s large armor, and speaks to them. It takes a moment, but Vinci recognizes the dark brown hair belonging to Vilkas, messy and in need of a comb. When the old man begins walking around the outer edge of Jorrvaskr, Vilkas stills and peers at her. She stares back, already imagining what he would say. _I don’t appreciate the looks._

When Vilkas goes back inside the mead hall, Vinci turns her attention back to the old man trudging around the base of Jorrvaskr. She watches him cross to the start of the steps leading to the Skyforge. It dawns on her he intends to talk to her, or Eorlund, but given how little the latter says she doubts he intends to have a deep and prolonged conversation with the blacksmith. She manages to stand by the time the Harbinger of the Companions reaches the top steps. The gray-haired man strides to her and smiles with decades of wisdom behind him. “You must be Vinci.”

“Vinci.” Vinci repeats. She feels uncomfortable again. “Who are you?”

“Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger and counselor of this group of rough rats,” the Harbinger chuckles and crosses beyond her to stand on the far side of the Skyforge’s raised bluff. He looks out across Jorrvaskr and smiles. “Do you care for the view? I’m not much of one myself, but the memories of this sky and these plains linger. A great many hunts took place here in the past.”

“It’s… nice,” Vinci frowns and straightens her head. She smooths the dull gray fabric of the dress Tilma lent her. “Excuse me, Harbinger. But… Why are you here?”

“You know the answer to that.” Kodlak nods once. His smile remains even after his tone lowers to one far more solemn. “—You are a member of the Silver Hand, Vinci. That puts you in a strange position among us.”

“I understand that.” The woman frowns.

“—But let’s ignore that topic for now. It is clear to me you aren’t ready to turn on your former allies. You will find that, while rough, us Companions are not cruel. We will not harm you while you remain here. I for one do not intend to rip off toenails and make you speak,” the man is strangely assuring, to the point Vinci almost believes him. Kodlak pauses and takes a long look at her, assessing her from head to toe. “…You certainly are strange for a Nord. If you don’t mind me asking—Who are your parents?”

Part of her feels like a little kid again. Her walls go up immediately. Her eyes narrow. “They’re dead.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Vinci suddenly understands where Vilkas gets it from. She exhales slowly. The man wants honest answers, not workarounds and redirection. She looks at her feet. “Truthfully, I do not remember their names. Harbinger. I had two mothers. They were the most kind women in the realm. Now they are dead. It was a…” She clenches her eyes shut. “A long time ago.”

“How long?” The Harbinger presses.

He wants to know about _her_. He wants to know _her_ background. Vinci feels nauseous at the thought, but part of her feels obliged to tell. Even if the man claims he has no desire to hurt her, she does not trust him. She cannot trust him. She is still a prisoner, walking without visible chains. The woman’s hands tense. She meets his gaze. “A bit short of… thirty years ago, maybe?”

“You do not remember the years passing?” Kodlak’s eyes soften.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“I see.” The Harbinger scratches his chin. He looks like he wants to ask another question. The thought makes Vinci wince.

“Don’t,” she states softly. The woman’s gaze dims and she turns to look at the mead hall nearby. “I might not know what you are after, but—”

“Vilkas and Farkas.” The names make her freeze.

 _Twins, boys, left cell, one is always crying, sing to him, he hushes, dragon priest, go home…_ The woman grabs her head and hisses. She can see it in her mind’s eye: the terrified forms of the youth, but a year younger than herself. She remembers the fear all the children of the cages share. She remembers, and part of it remains, because her body starts to tremble. She feels her eyes water. _Not in front of him. Not in front of the Companion._ The woman makes herself breath, hiss, curse, cry, until she suppresses the fear and panic back into her gut for another time. She glares at Kodlak, the stain of raw emotions visible on her cheeks and in her posture.

Kodlak frowns. “I’m sorry, but it had to be done. You do know them. Or, you did, as a child.”

“I’m aware,” the woman hisses. “I recognized him—Vilkas—At the Inn.”

“The Sleeping Giant. Ten years ago,” Kodlak crosses his arms. His gaze is soft, but it is in a way she does not understand. “You did not say anything to him about it then.”

“He’s a Companion. I am a Silver Hand.” Vinci states blankly. “The past doesn’t… It doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change what we are now.”

“Perhaps you view it that way. But Vilkas has had a change of heart on that concept,” the Harbinger smiles again. “Perhaps none of us know who you are, _Vinci,_ but if you are one of the children from the group Vilkas and his brother were saved from… Vilkas carries much guilt over being one of the survivors rescued. To know there is more—That it is not only him and Farkas—It might help alleviate guilt he does not need to feel. You were children.”

Vinci opens her mouth to speak but Kodlak holds up a hand. Behind the two, Eorlund continues to hammer away at the Skyforge. The man never ceases in his work.

“—He already suspects you are one of the children from that time. He thinks of it as a series of grand coincidences. I think… it is a dabbling of fates,” the Harbinger nods. He turns to face Vinci. His hands land on her shoulders. “It is clear to me that are unresolved issues over this. Between you, Vilkas, and Farkas. The past is a powerful thing. But it must be dealt with, Silver Hand. You cannot run away. Not when it effects the Companions. I will give you a choice. You can tell Vilkas and Farkas who you are. The three of you can address this at your own pace. Or—I will. Vilkas and Farkas can address it as they see fit. The past must be spoken for.”

“That’s not a choice,” she says. The woman shoves the Harbinger’s hands off and looks to the side. “You are a manipulative man.”

“Sometimes.” Kodlak acknowledges with a sharp nod. “But that does not absolve you of your place in this.”

“I’ll tell them.” Vinci turns away. “Give me a few days. Please.”

“Very well.”

She has zero desire to mention anything. The past is the past for a reason: she wants to _forget it_ , not open up the old wounds in a sick attempt to scab them over. The woman spends the rest of the day by herself, save for a silent and endlessly working Gray-Mane nearby. She does not see Vilkas before she retires for the evening. Nor does she see the face of his brother. She has not seen Farkas since the incident at the inn ten years ago, when she caught a glimpse of the duo coming in. But he is still alive, and he is still _there_ in Jorrvaskr somewhere, and that means she has two people to avoid.

Given Vilkas’s duty of keeping an eye on her—she understands he is no more than an informal warden—it becomes difficult. She keeps him at an arms-length; he is not nearly so snappy with her as he was the day with the vendor, but she does not give him an inch to budge on. The past is too haunting to risk exposing the volatile memories that leave her in deep nightmares and horrid dreams as it is. If Vilkas notices the distance, he says nothing.

“It just—It feels _so_ slow!” The voice of the Imperial named _Ria_ comes out loud and clear from the training grounds, four days after Vinci speaks with Kodlak.

The clouds overhead block out the light of the sun, but there is no rain. The warmth of summer lingers. Across from Ria, in the same wolf armor he carried her out from, Vilkas lowers his great sword and frowns, “It is going to feel that way for a while, Shield-Sister.”

“I know, I _know,_ ” the woman throws her hands—and longsword—into the air. “Eventually I’ll get used to it, and then my short sword will be like a _knitting needle._ I _still_ don’t know what a knitting needle feels like, Vilkas! I’ve never taken up knitting in my life.”

“I was going to describe it as a toothpick this time.” The Companion remarks dryly. “Let’s go again.”

She watches the two spar from the small lounge area just beyond the Jorrvaskr’s back doors. It feels strange to sit in chairs of _Companions_ , but aside from sharp stares and occasionally whispers, the warriors don’t bother her. Vinci keeps her eyes sharp for any sign of Kodlak, but the Harbinger doesn’t go out of his way to approach her again.

 _I’m not telling them. I want to go home._ She grits her teeth. _Even if… I don’t know where home is._

It is a noticeable action by the Companions present. Two sit in chairs across from her, while one—she recognizes as the _Dragonborn,_ Rune—sits directly next to her. Rune raises a brow but it is one of the companions she does not recognize that speaks up.

“Need to say something?” The voice belongs to a dark elf, a dunmer, with red eyes and burgundy hair swept back and styled. He has a sharp jawline. His gaze is astute and even after asking the question he continues to stare at Vinci.

She feels uncomfortable. “No.”

“Thought so.” The dunmer remarks. He crosses his arms. “You’re the Silver Hand lady. Vinci, right?”

 _Vinci is dead._ Her eyes water. She wipes them and exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

“Athis,” Athis jabs a thumb at himself and huffs. “How old are you?”

“C’mon, hey, you don’t got to answer that,” a Nord with a bushy blond beard and thin hair cuts in. “Athis got a stick up his ass half the time.”

“Watch your tongue. I’ll cut it out, Torvar.” The dark elf snaps.

“Huh. You think I can’t stick a sword up your gullet before you reach my mouth?” Torvar’s brows wiggle. The man takes each word with humor, happy with lounge back in a chair with a cup of mead. Torvar glances at Vinci. “Look, maybe you _are_ Silver Hand… Trying to kill us over rumors of nonsense and witchcraft… But you know, look at us! We got a wide group of people here. By wide, I mean a dark elf _and_ an Imperial. You being a Silver Hand? Sure, we don’t trust you—But you’ll fit in, in time. You got to consider the long game…”

“Ignore them.” Rune clears his throat. “Torvar’s drunk half the time, Silver Hand. Athis is cranky none of us get to know you like they got to know me.”

“I’m _Vinci,_ ” Vinci corrects him. It irritates her when the Dragonborn waves off her words.

“So, Silver Hand, since we ought to be getting to know one another, why don’t you ask us about ourselves?” Rune sits upright in his chair.

“I would rather watch—”

Rune grins. “Paint dry?”

“Not another one—No one gets those, Dragonborn,” Athis groans and rakes a hand through his hair. “Torvar, hand me the mead. Need to drown out Rune’s piss poor jokes.”

“It’s a joke where I come from.” The Dragonborn states calmly.

Torvar hands a bottle of wine to Athis. It is uncapped and drunk straight from the bottle a minute later. Rune turns to Vinci and smiles. “Sure, you have zero desire to ask us shit. I’ll respect that. But maybe open up a little. If you’re going to be here for the long run then you best make friends. We’re Shield-Siblings, united as _Companions_ in Jorrvaskr. We’ll have your back when push comes to shove, but only if you let us.”

 _I have no intention of that happening._ She stands. Torvar whistles. The action makes her flush red, which only encourages the man’s laughter and stares. Granted, it was kind of Tilma to lend her more clothes, but the dark brown dress is a tad too short in places and offers no support. Vinci exhales sharply and makes for the doors to Jorrvaskr. She finds Companions inside, but the one she did not expect is the near lookalike of Vilkas. The door falls shut behind her and Vinci pauses at the sight of Farkas listening intently to a nimble red-haired woman rattle off a list of locations.

“Skjor intends to scout Gallows Rock. He got word an encampment of Silver Hands are present. It is time to turn the tide on the hunters.” Aela the Huntress crosses her arms and eyes Farkas.

“Does Kodlak know?” Farkas frowns.

“Not yet,” Aela’s confession makes Farkas stare. “It only just came up, Shield-Brother. Skjor assured me he will discuss the matter in full with the Harbinger.”

“Alright.” The man nods.

Vinci tries to slip by without drawing more attention, but a hitch in the floor’s level makes her stumble. She grabs unto the closest thing for balance; her hand lands on Farkas’ arm. The man stiffens and snaps his head to look at her. The color drains from his face while Aela laughs lightly. “Ah, the Silver Hand.”

“…You really do look like…” Farkas blurts. He stands still as stone. “Leilani?”

 _“I’m not Leilani!”_ Vinci straightens upright and releases him. She grits her teeth. She hates the memories, she hates it all. It is beginning to overwhelm her again. She repeats the words aloud, mainly to herself. “—I’m not Leilani! _Leilani was weak!_ I’m Vinci!”

“What?” Farkas is confused. Even the huntress, Aela, pauses and eyes her.

“I am _Vinci,_ ” the woman spits. Her patience ends and ire begins. “ _Vinci._ Vinci. Vinci is… I’m Vinci.”

Vinci is brave and strong and courageous and dead. Leilani is weak and full of tears and terror and sobs. She won’t be Leilani. She made that decision when the Silver Hand dragged her from the altar of a Prince, when Tulle’s kind eyes looked on with concern and the Silver Hand asked her what she wanted to be called.

 _I’m Vinci._ The thought rings as loud as it did that day, weak but trying to be strong. _I’m Vinci._

She walks out of Jorrvaskr without another word, stepping down the stone steps of the mead hall and wandering Whiterun. She knows where the front gate is. She isn’t stopped by guards. The woman makes it fifty yards down the road, beyond the walls of Whiterun and into the open plains of the Hold before she hears the shout. She doesn’t stop walking. She wants to travel far, far away from the past. She wants to leave it in a place so deep below the earth it can never hurt her or anyone else again.

She is a Silver Hand first, and Vinci second. The gallops of horses ring out and then the animals are barreling past her. She holds up her arms but nothing strikes her. A horse snorts and with it comes Vilkas’s familiar sigh. “What are you doing?”

His horse is a brown mare with a white patch by the eye. The other horse has Rune on the front, Farkas in the back, and the horse in question is a lovely cream color. The Dragonborn looks apologetic, but only just so, and for _what_ is beyond her. Farkas’ eyes are dim and weary. Vinci lowers her arms and looks between the three. “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah… Uh. I’m going to be the one to ask politely: can you not do that?” Rune tilts his head to one side. “No offense, but you’re asking to be kidnapped. No weapons, armor, insignia, nothing. What do you plan to do if someone tries to drag you back to the Silver Hand?”

“I don’t know.” Vinci states quietly. She frowns. “Does it matter? I am Silver Hand. What happens to me is irrelevant.”

“By the Divines, do you seriously think that?” Vilkas snaps. His eyes narrow on her.

“Vilkas...” Farkas pauses at his brother raising a hand.

“No. No, I asked her a question. Do you really believe what happens to you is irrelevant, Silver Hand?” The Companion asks it with increased agitation. “Is that how you view the world now?”

“What do you want me to say?” Vinci asks softly. Her eyes dim. “Sorry the world’s been insufferable for an eternity? Sorry I am not peppy and cooperative? Sorry growing up in a cage gave me a nihilistic outlook on life? What do you want me to say, Vilkas?”

She gives up. She feels tired. If darkness came and pulled her away, she would willingly follow it. She wants to go to a home that doesn’t exist anymore, home to a family she never got to bury. The woman’s shoulders slump. She doesn’t care about fixing her head tilting at an angle. She doesn’t care about the way her hands shake and tremble, overwhelmed by _everything_ and then some. She stares blankly at Vilkas, waiting for his response, but he is taken aback. The man looks at Rune and Farkas and states quietly, “Shield-Brother, take the horses.”

“It is what I’m here for.” Rune remarks. When Vilkas dismounts, the man hands the reins to Rune. Farkas follows and gives Rune a glance before turning to Vilkas.

“You first.” Farkas states. “She’s more familiar with you.”

Vilkas tenses. The man reaches for his gauntlets and pulls off his right one. His pale flesh meets the overcast sky. Vilkas inhales deeply and walks to Vinci. He holds up the back of his hand where old scar tissue lingers, a reminder of the past that cannot be easily forgotten. Vinci pauses. She knew that already; she knew in her heart that the two twins were the same from back then. But that was then, and this is now. When Farkas fumbles with a gauntlet and pulls it off to show, she gives him a silent nod of acknowledgement. All three of them have the marking on the back of their right hand. Vinci’s is partially damaged; she remembers Tulle suggesting they try to cut it off. It only worked in part; the mismatched pigmentation of the tissue is still visible. The overall shape remains, and the tissue that originally scarred over her knuckles is as it was decades ago.

“You aren’t surprised.” Vilkas observes. He pauses.

Vinci looks to the side. “No.”

“You knew?” The man’s eyes are wide.

“It _doesn’t matter,_ ” Vinci says the words slowly, trying to emphasize the point. “I-I am a Silver Hand. You two became Companions. We share a past, sure, but it does not change—”

“It does.” Farkas interrupts. He exhales softly. “Had I known another of us was imprisoned… I would’ve joined my brother to intervene.”

“We'd have ripped the walls of that wretched place out years ago.” Vilkas growls. He is quiet for a minute, then he looks away. He hesitates before asking, “Was that why you said nothing at the inn? Before you fell out the ceiling. You didn’t sell us out.”

Vinci finds the ground a fascinating thing to focus on. She hears the horses nearby whine and stomp a foot, impatient to run. Part of her, too, feels like running. She wants to outrun the two massive reminders of the past. But she is tired. She is so, so tired.

“I want to go home.” She says softly. “I don’t want any of this.”

“Farkas, ride back and tell the Harbinger.” Vilkas states.

“What do you plan to do?” Farkas speaks as he climbs up on his horse, seated behind Rune once more.

“I’m not sure,” Vilkas confesses. She feels his gaze return to her. “But I promised to protect her. I will bring her back in one piece.”

“Bring yourself back in one piece,” Farkas huffs. “Tilma mentioned squash stew for supper.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Vilkas’ words carry a note of humor, of a lightheartedness she has not heard of him before. When the horse leaves, Vilkas keeps one hand on the reins of his horse and eyes her carefully. She reluctantly meets his gaze. It is surprisingly soft. “Where do you want to go, Silver Hand?”

“Vinci.” She corrects him. Her hands tense into fists. “Are you offering to take me somewhere?”

The man sighs. He walks to her, bringing the horse along, and hands her the reins. She stares at him, bewildered, but he tilts his head to one side. “You wanted to go home. I don’t know where that is, so… We’ll ride around. Look for it. Head back, eventually. But ride for now. Alright?”

The horse seems friendly. Her eyes water. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. You’re a _Companion—_ ”

“Companions help people.” Vilkas cuts her off. He crosses his arms. “Besides. I want to.”

“Even a Silver Hand?” Vinci looks at him.

“Help _this_ Silver Hand. Don’t get used to being an exception.” The Companion grunts.

She feels his body tense when she wraps her arms around him. His arms hesitate before they rise and hug her back, meek but gentle. He feels warm, for a Companion. Safe, for a Companion. The woman draws back almost as quickly. She looks to the side. “Thank you.”

“Up, now. On the horse. Don’t let go of the reins.” Vilkas directs her. He climbs into the saddle behind her and takes the reins back. "Where to first?"

"I get to pick?" She pauses. She feels him sigh, but it is not a sigh. It is a soft chuckle, a brief moment of humor that flits away with the passing wind. She looks over her shoulder and meets his pale brown gaze. Vinci's lips curve into a faint smile, "Let's start with the river."


	6. start with the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas is a man of composure. or, he thought he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch. 5 but as it happens on vilkas's end  
> because perspective is fun
> 
> also i dont usually say this  
> but if u want a soundtrack for this chapter (and chapter 5)  
> "feels like falling" by unsecret is a+  
> thank you for reading ^_^

He is a man of composure. It has taken years of work to get to the point he can handle himself and who he is, much less control the _blood._ Accepting a place among the Circle was a month of little sleep and lengthy meditation. Becoming a werewolf was a decision he spent a half-year thinking through beforehand. He almost backed out of the transformation altogether, but Farkas going first surprised him and he was not about to let his brother condemn his soul to Hircine’s hunting grounds for no reason. Assessing a situation is what Vilkas is at heart: the logical, deductive half to compliment Farkas’s brawn and brawl. _Two peas in a pod._

He is not the hotheaded man he was ten years ago. He is tactical. He is cautious. He is Vilkas, but he doesn’t know himself as well as he thinks, because the second Farkas bursts outside the back doors of Jorrvaskr and yells for him he snaps in an instant. He tags Athis in to duel Ria while the man jogs over to his brother. “What is it?”

“—She looks—Just like—Leilani.” Farkas shakes. “She smells like—Her.”

“Leilani’s dead.” Vilkas’ eyes narrow.

“What if she isn’t?” Farkas grabs his brother by the shoulders. Rune cocks a brow and eyes the two, but Vilkas doesn’t heed him attention. His eyes are locked on his twin. Farkas stares. “We were—They were _magic_ users. We don’t know—What they did—To her. There wasn’t a body.”

He isn’t prepared for the jolt of emotion that springs up on him. Vilkas freezes and swallows. “Okay. Let’s… Let’s go find her. And talk to her.”

“She just left.” Farkas releases him and curses under his breath. His brother looks panicked. Vilkas does not like the sight of his brother in a panic. 

The Companion frowns. “So we’ll… catch up, Farkas.”

“A chase, huh?” Rune interjects and leaps up, ignoring Torvar’s complaint of knocking over a closed bottle of mead. Rune brushes himself off and looks at the twins. “I have no idea what’s going on, but I would like to extend my services as Dragonborn if it helps. I have _a_ horse.”

“An entire horse…” Torvar groans from the side. The mead has set in. “Like… like an ass. You have an entire ass.”

The wind blows gallantly as the three Companions briskly walk down the steps away from the mead hall. Rune gives both twins a look while Vilkas grimaces. “There’s too many people.”

“No, I have it.” Farkas takes a long whiff of the air.

Even as the soft-spoken brother leads the way, the emotions in Vilkas’ chest grow and bubble over. He isn’t sure _what_ precisely he feels, somewhere between a wreck of thoughts and overwhelming disbelief. But Farkas’ senses are stronger than his; if the man says something, it must be true, or he thinks it is true, and Vilkas does not question his brother on scent trails. He cannot stop his thoughts from wandering at all the what’s, the why’s, the how’s, and the if’s that roll in. When Farkas stops at Whiterun gate, two guards greet the trio. Farkas inquires about Vinci while Vilkas’ stomach churns uncomfortably.

“I see her. Vinci!” Rune shouts the name from the gate. “—Yeah, she isn’t stopping—C’mon, I’ll get my horse… Kelloggs can carry two, and maybe we can borrow one for you, Vilkas?”

“Uh-huh.” Vilkas pays zero attention. His mind is buzzing and hyper-stimulated.

 _If she is actually Leilani…_ He does not know how to feel. Joy, for one. He never forgot her kindness in the darkness, a light surrounded by monsters. In his memories and dreams, she is always the one to say something or offer comfort. He never got to thank her for the actions. The small, subtle or direct remarks kept the goal of _survival_ in Vilkas’s sights, and he can only assume the same for Farkas. _I owe her a great deal. I could finally show that. I can ask Kodlak to talk to the owners of that inn in town. We could work something out, so she has a room and isn’t going back and forth everywhere. If we can’t—She could take mine. I’ll sleep with the whelps until she has a place. Or maybe she’ll let me take the floor._

He is quickly becoming a mess in his mind, absently following Farkas and Rune with little awareness. His gaze furrows. _The floor. I’ll take the floor. Good. She can sleep and I can guard her. Make sure no one disturbs her. I’ll protect her. I’ll keep her safe. And if she needs someone to hold unto… Like in the catacombs…  
_

His head smacks against a wooden fence. The man growls and steps back, irritated. It isn’t cut open, but his head might be sore for the next half-hour.

Rune glances back and snorts. “I told you to watch it. Were you paying attention? C’mon, you take Mara.” The Dragonborn gestures at a mare with a brown pelt, mane, and a white patch around the eye. Why anyone would name a horse after a Divine like Mara is beyond Vilkas.

He grunts at a young stablehand shoveling manure into a bucket. “You mind?”

“Well…” the stablehand pauses. The young lad’s eyes grow big. “If the Dragonborn needs something… pops said to let him have it… So… Bring her back for me, okay? She’s my favorite horse. Real nice, strong too.”

“Will do.” Vilkas says. He saddles the horse up and climbs on. Behind him, in an adjacent stable, he spots Rune and Farkas take off on a horse of a soft cream hue. _Kelloggs._

It takes less than two minutes to catch up to Vinci—Leilani?—and both horses initially ride ahead of her before doubling back. Though the horses don’t technically _block_ her path, Vilkas imagines it looks or feels that way. His breath catches in his throat. His thoughts are no less than the mess they were before, but he _tries_ to rein them in. What comes out sounds closer to a sigh, the man straining not to… _something_. He decides not to jump into the topic. It would be overwhelming; he knows how much the subject hangs over his head. He assumes it is the same for Vinci. _Leilani. Vinci? Her. Her._

“What are you doing?” Vilkas asks while his horse snorts. He holds unto the reins.

Vinci lowers her arms. Vilkas pauses. His concern she might view him and Farkas and Rune as potential threats was not off its mark; the woman is incredibly rattled. She looks everything between suspicious to tired to sad. He doesn’t like it. _The faster we get through this conversation, the faster we can go back to Jorrvaskr and… I don’t know. Drink mead. Find her clothes that fit. Tilma’s doesn’t do her right._

“I’m leaving.” The words bring the nigh-whimsical, hopeful thoughts in Vilkas’s head to a sudden halt.

“Yeah… Uh,” Rune speaks up from atop his horse, Farkas behind him. His brother shares a concerned glance with Vilkas while the Dragonborn talks. “I’m going to be the one to ask politely: can you not do that? No offense, but you’re asking to be kidnapped. No weapons, armor, insignia, nothing. What do you plan to do if someone tries to drag you back to the Silver Hand?”

 _Divines, we aren’t letting that happen._ Vilkas nearly shouts the words. He holds his tongue, only because he doesn’t know what he might start saying if he tries to speak.

“I don’t know.” Vinci—Leilani—looks to the side. She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. A frown lingers on her lips. “…Does it matter? I am Silver Hand. What happens to me is irrelevant.”

It physically pains him to hear the words. They are too negative, too hopeless, and too mournful to fit her. It almost makes him angry, because all he wants to do is shout that those words can’t _possibly_ be true if she is Leilani. _Leilani is brave and full of courage. Leilani sings the pain away._ Part of him snaps, like at the catacombs, but it is not a trigger for the gnawing need to protect her that has begun to grow inside him. It is a vice holding back disbelief, shock, and a degree of outrage over the sentiments. Vilkas can’t help but blurt out, “By the Divines—Do you _seriously_ think that?!”

His eyes narrow. He hears Farkas call from the side, concerned for him. “Vilkas…”

“No—No! I asked her a question.” Vilkas grits his teeth. He does not know how to convey what he wants to say, and it comes out of him with all the other words. “Do you really believe—What happens to you is _irrelevant,_ Silver Hand? _Is that how you view the world now?”_

 _“What do you want me to say?_ ” The woman’s voice drops to a whisper. Her eyes water. Her gaze dims. She looks exhausted by everything; he can see it in the heavy bags hanging beneath her eyes. She is not a werewolf, but she is as tired as one. The thought makes him regret everything he has said, because it is clear he cannot say what he wants. He cannot tell her everything when all that comes out is nothing but a mish-mash of agitated syllables. Vinci stares at him and he stares back.

When Vilkas says nothing, she goes on. The questions she asks are strenuous to say.

“Sorry the world’s been insufferable for an eternity?”

He doesn’t know what to do. Vilkas does not have a map of this battlefield.

“Sorry I am not peppy and cooperative?”

But there must be something— _something!_ He was so optimistic a moment ago! He was so _hopeful._ He thought Farkas might actually have a point, that the dreams and nightmares of the past weren’t for nothing, that they actually pointed to Leilani being _alive._ He wants it to be true. He wants it to be true. At least her. At least her.

“Sorry growing up in a cage gave me a nihilistic outlook on life,” it is spoken like a question, yet it comes out closer to a confession, admission, or statement. Vinci’s hands tremble. _“What do you want me to say, Vilkas?”_

 _If Jergen had not taken us… would we have met the same fate?_ Vilkas stares. The woman’s eyes are terribly empty, like she’s given up.

The silence that follows numbs most of his feelings. Vilkas’ eyes dim. In trying to find answers, it appears all any of them did was make things worse for her. He got carried away, caught in the what if’s and possibilities he and Farkas were not the only ones to live, that perhaps one of the children of the darkness that he cared about as a friend had made it out. He notes Vinci’s eyes, a dull green against her black hair. It is braided today.

 _Leilani had blue eyes. Vinci died. You can’t be either of them, can you?_ He slumps his shoulders. _Farkas was… He couldn’t have been wrong, could he? He said you smell just like her._ But he knows sometimes people carry similar scents, and that Farkas’ memory of Leilani is the only basis he has to go off.

Vilkas gives his brother a sharp look. Farkas shifts in place on the saddle. His brother’s eyes hold a somber look. Seeing regret on him is not a good look for Farkas. Vilkas frowns and turns to Rune. “…Shield-Brother. Take the horses.”

“It is what I am here for…” Rune trails off. Vilkas dismounts and walks the horse and reins to the Dragonborn, who nods at him. Farkas climbs off his horse and stares Vilkas in the eye. His brother glances at his gauntlet.

“You first.” Farkas says. “She’s more… _familiar_ with you.”

 _What does that mean?_ Vilkas tenses, but he doesn’t back down. He pulls off his right gauntlet. The scar is a nauseating sight to see, a marking of the man’s past he cannot escape from, and the longer he stares the dizzier Vilkas begins to feel. He inhales deeply and walks to Vinci, willing her to listen and look just a little longer. He holds up the back of his hand to show the mark. The woman pauses. Vilkas’s heart jumps in his chest. The surge of hope dies when Farkas fumbles with his gauntlet and holds out his right hand to show the same brand on the back; Vinci gives him a stiff nod but says nothing. There is no surprise on her face, no shock in her expression, and the realization that she _knows_ hits him in the chest and knocks the air from his lungs.

Vilkas stares. “You aren’t surprised?”

“No.” Vinci averts her gaze.

“You… knew?” It comes out a croak.

“It doesn’t matter.” Vinci speaks slowly and softly. Her voice cracks. “I—I am a Silver Hand. You two became _Companions._ We share a past, sure, but it does not change—”

“It does!” Farkas interrupts. He exhales sharply.

Vilkas is grateful, if only to try and unscramble his thoughts at that moment. Nothing makes sense. Everything is a mess. He feels a mess. _How can you say that about us? About what we lived through? All three of us! We aren’t just… We didn’t spend a night in a cave! We were imprisoned! Kept together for years! We were all we had of each other! It isn’t just a past! That shaped who we are now! You can’t just… You can’t just say we share a past. It’s more than that. It’s…_

Farkas breaks through the man’s thoughts, continuing where he left off. “—Had I known another of _us_ was imprisoned—I would’ve joined my brother to intervene—”

“We’d have ripped the _walls_ of that _wretched place_ out years ago!” Vilkas’s growl is full of grief, guilt, remorse, shock, _disbelief_. He clenches his eyes shut and fights the urge to shake, to hide, to crawl, to _flee_ from everything just then. It is all coming out: all the things he wants to hold back, hide from the world, from Farkas, from _everyone_. Part of him is still a scared child, but there is no one to sing to him this time.

He just wants to _know_. He wants to know what happened to Leilani, to Vinci, and to all the other children in the end. He wants to know Jergen didn’t lie when the man claimed Vilkas and Farkas were the only two survivors.

Vilkas looks back at Vinci. His gaze dims. He sucks in a breath and asks. “—Was that—Why you said _nothing?_ At the inn. Before you… fell out the ceiling. You didn’t sell us out.”

_You could have but you didn’t. You didn’t because… Why didn’t you, Silver Hand?_

The woman’s gaze shifts to the ground. Her voice is very soft when she speaks again. “…I want to go home. I don’t want any of this.”

 _Why didn’t you let us die? Why do you care? Why do you care?_ His thoughts begin to loop. The itch won’t leave. Even if not Leilani—He _knows_ she has to be one of them. One of the children of the darkness. She is a survivor of that horrible time like he was. He knows that for sure. He clings to that thought with every inch of self-control and restraint, all to keep his mind from going over the precipice of madness in the emotions tearing at his inside. Vilkas takes a deep breath. He looks at Farkas and pauses. “Farkas. Ride back and tell the Harbinger.”

His brother freezes, but eventually climbs back up unto his horse. Farkas calls out as he does so, “What do you plan to do?”

“I’m… not sure.” Vilkas confesses. He meets Vinci’s gaze. The green eyes are as lush as a forest come springtime, when every inch of the ground and canopies springs with fresh shoots, twigs, and life. Vilkas pauses. He’s reminded of the catacombs, of the words he swore with no witnesses. Vilkas swallows. “But I promised to protect her. I will… bring her back in one piece.”

“Bring yourself back in one piece.” Farkas says it half-jokingly, but a very real air of caution comes in the words. His brother frowns. “Tilma mentioned squash stew for supper.”

It sounds filling, warm, and delicious: a welcome change from the mess of the day’s events. Vilkas nods. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He takes the reins of his horse back from Rune and watches the Dragonborn cart off his brother back to Whiterun. He wishes he could do the same. He wishes he could wrap Leilani up and carry her to Whiterun. _But she’s not. Not. Not. Not. I can’t._

She mentioned _home_ before. He does not know where that is or what she considers _home_ , but Vilkas deduces wherever _home_ is must contain some indication of the woman’s identify. He needs it now, but for a different purpose: he needs to let go of the sickeningly hopeful thoughts in his head, all the ones he knows cannot come to be. He needs closure, confirmation Leilani is actually dead. _Then these thoughts will leave. So will Vinci. Probably._

His gaze grows soft when he looks at her. He feels remorseful for acting in such a way, dragging out painful questions when he and Farkas were _wrong._ Vilkas hesitates before asking in a soft voice, “Where do you want to go, Silver Hand?”

He can’t bring himself to call her Vinci at that moment.

“Vinci,” she corrects him anyway. Her hands tense into fists. “Are you offering to take me somewhere?”

Vilkas sighs, not at her though he knows she probably thinks it is directed at her regardless. The man walks the horse and reins to her. He takes her hand and presses the reins into them. His fingers curl her hand around the reins and linger a second longer than they should. The man looks to the side when he draws back, tilting his head as he traces the shapes of the road, the plants of the plains, and dozens of pebbles scattered across the lands. “You… wanted to go home. I don’t know where that is, so. We’ll ride around. Look for it. Head back, eventually. But ride for now. Alright?”

“—I don’t understand why you are doing this,” the woman is hesitant. “You’re a _Companion_ —”

 _“Companions help people,”_ Vilkas cuts her off before he starts blurting out all the ways she reminds him of his dead friend. He crosses his arms. “Besides. I want to.”

“Even a Silver Hand?”

_You aren’t just a Silver Hand._

“Help _this_ Silver Hand.” The man elaborates with a grunt. “Don’t get used to being an excep…tion.”

His eyes widen and he freezes when a warm body steps to him and wraps him in her arms. The woman is warm and familiar and fits all the same ways Leilani did when she once held him. His vision swarms at the memory, unable to tell flashback from reality. His arms rise of their own accord. He clings to her, soaking in every inch of warmth and savoring how soft she is. If a sorcerer petrified him like that, he would die in bliss, overwhelmed by the intense feelings invoked by such a simple gesture.

He doesn’t want to let go but it is over almost as quickly as it began. 

“Thank you,” She whispers.

Vilkas directs her to the horse. It is the only thing he can feasibly do when the rest of his body screams at him to take her in his arms and return to that safety. He fights the urge. His self-control strains as he tells her, “Up, now. On the… horse. Don’t let go of the reins,” when he climbs unto the saddle behind her, the feelings come back. Vilkas swallows. “Where to first?”

“I get to pick?” The sincerity of the question leaves him stunned. After _so much_ stress and pain trying to come to terms with everything that can overwhelm him—Vilkas can’t help himself. A faint chuckle escapes him. He freezes when the woman looks over her shoulder at him. “Let’s start with the river.”

It is not the second of joy that leaves him speechless, nor the closeness of enthralling green eyes. It is the faint curve of Vinci’s lips when she smiles, a sight so beautiful and breath-taking the man forgets everything that worries him. Not even the wolf inside his spirit can howl loud enough to steal his attention. The words of his promise seize him with a desperation. He doesn’t want to protect her. Vilkas _needs_ to protect her.

It doesn’t matter whether she is _Leilani_ to matter to him.


	7. not invited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> searching for vinci's "home" leads the two to a two-week long trek around whiterun hold. it goes better and worse than vilkas expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw a lot of implied cannibalism  
> \+ child abuse / implications of such esp in the memory-dream

“That’s an elk. Not a deer.” Vilkas squints his eyes at the majestic creature, covered in a thin summer coat of fur but flighty as ever. Even at the distance, he sees the animal tense.

 _What I wouldn’t give for fresh meat about now. Roast it over a spit._ He bites his lip. Hunger is on his mind almost as much as the woman nearby. Though Vilkas never ventures _too_ far from Whiterun, his werewolf metabolism goes through calories quick and he constantly feels an ache for food. He never lets it develop to the point of what it was when he was a kid, but it lingers. The wolf in his spirit prowls and snarls within his soul.

Vinci doesn’t have the slightest clue where _home_ is, and as it turns out: that is perfectly fine by Vilkas. He prefers not to go on long expeditions outside of hunts, but in this instance there is a very important factor to the horse rides across Whiterun Hold and to the searches up and down winding rivers, rolling hills, and through sunlit forests. He can hear and smell the woman behind him. Every step she takes is one he views as moving forward, regardless if it involves wading creeks or climbing _down_ trees. Vinci finds meaning to the search for a non-descript home—so he does as well.

He doesn’t know who Vinci is. He isn’t any closer to that mystery, nor is he capable of fully shutting down the thoughts she might be Leilani. It drives him _wild_ at night, when she’s asleep by the fire and he has first watch, to see her look like Leilani’s copy yet not be Leilani. As the days pass, he worries if he is becoming obsessive. He knows werewolves can easily cross the line of passionate into obsession. More than once he makes himself step away and think of other things. Vilkas is a man of restraint and self-control. And composure, most of the time. He will not allow the wolf in his spirit to come undone and rip apart— _not Leilani not Leilani not Leilani—_ Vinci in a werewolf-frenzy of bloodlust and excitement.

Sometimes the man stands in the middle of the night and takes a walk around the perimeter of the temporary camps he and Vinci set up. Sometimes he buries his thoughts into the drive to protect her; he practices and practices and practices for night hours until it is time for her to be the one on guard duty and him to sleep.

But the dreams don’t help. They are memories, all of them, and each as dark and twisted as the last. He is most vulnerable to his wolf spirit then, because he can only watch the dream unfold. His wolf enjoys ripping through good memories and perpetuating bad ones. His wolf hunts the moments of his past he fears and holds dear the most, and it feasts and gorges on his reactions. In the two-week stretch he and Vinci wander the countryside, Vilkas only goes one night without waking nightmares following.

It is, mercifully, the same night he is most exhausted. He struggles to keep himself awake to the point even Vinci notices. The two never did succeed in hunting an elk, though the memory of her baffled face at seeing how quickly an elk can _run_ is cherished in his mind. Vilkas rides on the front of the saddle for once. He enjoys how the simple decision takes the chore of horseback riding and makes it something more interesting. The closeness is a thing to savor.

“Vilkas?” The Silver Hand tenses behind him.

The man snaps upright. The horse, Mara, is on a slow but steady trot down a road vacant of other travelers. “Yeah?”

“Are you falling asleep?” Vinci is sincere in concern. Any other time, he would be happy to know the woman feels comfortable expressing _concern_ for _him_. “Vilkas. _Vilkas!”_

His eyes snap open again. The Companion grits his teeth. “I am…”

“Falling asleep?” Vinci taps his arm.

“Ow.”

“Do you not sleep?” The conversation is a drain on energy he does not have. He should have taken the duo back to Whiterun and returned the borrowed horse, but Vilkas did not anticipate himself volunteering to be a tour guide around Whiterun Hold. For anyone else, save perhaps Farkas or Kodlak, the man would have snorted and gone to bed.

But Vinci is Vinci. The conflict of interest between her and sleep wears on him. But how can he protect her if he is always sleeping? He _swore_ to it. The man isn’t aware he leans off the saddle until Vinci’s hands grab him and pull him back. Or, try to. Vilkas thinks the curse before he has time to say it because he sees the sky tilt to one side. His semi-awake body topples off, pulled by gravity to the ground. He hears a crash when he hits the ground.

“ _Oblivion,”_ Vilkas voices the pain of his armor crushing his body. Mara snorts behind him. When he looks at the animal, he is relieved to see she stays in place patiently. The relief is followed by confusion at the lack of rider on the horse.

His eyes lower and he tenses at the pair of green staring at him.

 _Of course. You tried to pull me back up. But you don’t got muscles yet. We need to fix that. After you get off me._ Vilkas swallows. “Vinci.”

“Oh, I… I thought I could catch you. That didn’t work.” The woman climbs off him. All the warmth and safety and life her proximity stirs in him leaves with her. Vinci brushes herself off. She wears a dirty black dress, a bit big but surely more fitting than Tilma’s old clothes were. A local farmer was kind enough to offer it after Vinci fell in the river and subsequently the mud two days prior; Vilkas makes a note to stop by and check on the old man in the future, bring him an extra rabbit or pheasant.

Vilkas finds Vinci offering a hand to him. He pauses and eyes her. “You couldn’t pull me up before.”

“So I can’t try again?” The woman frowns. “Maybe we should stop for the day.”

 _We._ Like the two are officially comrades-in-arms, _official_ adventuring partners. Vilkas pauses. “You said you wanted to see the waterfall.”

“That’s in a cave. That requires climbing. You told me that,” Vinci’s head does the tilted-bent thing again. The woman straightens up at his glance. She frowns. “I don’t want to see it anymore. I think you would hurt yourself if you fell asleep mid-climb.”

“Fair,” the Companion grunts. “What, then?”

“A camp. You could—Sit. Not there, but… once we find a place for the night. I’ll take watch.” Vinci’s eyes flicker up the road.

Vilkas watches her a moment. She was always attentive, but it brings him a deep feeling of satisfaction to see how she has slowly come out of her many, many shells since he first carried her out of the Silver Hand compound. He hopes the trend continues. Her vigilance is not always rooted in paranoia and it will keep her alive and _safe_ if she is aware of her surroundings. Not that _he_ wouldn’t keep her safe. _I made a promise I intend to keep._

In the following hour, Vinci picks out a place to camp for the night. True to her word, she makes the Companion sit. He grunts and grumbles but in minutes he is out like a light, falling asleep against a saddle bag to the sound of Vinci doing Vinci-things.

When he dreams, it is of a dark and terrible place. He is not merely a child; he is an adolescent. He guesses his age at fourteen, just shy of the time Jergen rescued him and his brother. In this dream, there are very few children in cages. There are few children at all. Most of them are gone, and the thought alone terrifies him even with the awareness he is asleep. Vilkas opens his eyes and looks around a large cell for Farkas. His twin is asleep on a cot, dressed in the same rags as all the other kids. The monsters in masks have always sought to provide only the basic, bare necessities to sustain life.

He is aware enough of the dream being a _dream_ to will his dream-self to look around the cages. He looks for a girl with green eyes and black hair, but finds none.

Most of the children are youths, younger than him but nowhere near the age they were when he and Farkas were kidnapped. Vilkas feels himself sigh. The memory that _is_ the dream takes over and he watches the scene play out.

 _“Vilkas.”_ His brother wakes up on the cot, snapped awake by something that leaves Farkas with shakes.

 _“I’m here,”_ Vilkas says softly. _“What?”_

 _“I had a dream. They came to get me. The darkness. The monsters in masks.”_ His brother is petrified. Farkas sits upright on the dirty cot and draws his knees to his chest. He wraps arms around himself. Vilkas frowns as his brother goes on. _“I’m scared. Am I next? The next lamb? What if they come back tonight? What if they take me?”_

 _“I won’t let that happen.”_ Vilkas assures him. The words do not dissuade the tears in Farkas’s eyes.

 _“Farkas.”_ The soft voice makes Farkas snap upright. Vilkas feels himself flinch. The two looks to the cell adjacent their right. Leilani is everything of a mess and then worse. She is horribly thin, malnourished and with hair falling out. She struggles to lift her head, but the blue eyes hold the same warmth they always have.

The teenage girl has been taken out of the cell many times, Vilkas remembers. The monsters in masks take her away and drag her back and she does not say a word of what they do beyond the word _feast_. Even in the dream, the memory, in life, he feels _nauseous_ at the thought.

 _“I heard them. Last time. Last time… last feast. A woman’s coming.”_ Leilani hangs her head. Vilkas pulls on his manacle, ignoring all the noise it makes to drag the chains as far as he can. He hears Farkas do the same. The two can reach the bars of their cell, but not Leilani. At least—not anymore. As they do, the teenager’s voice continues in soft, soft whispers. _“Namira. She’s called Namira.”_

 _The Ancient Darkness._ Vilkas the Companion feels chills begin to thread down his spine.

 _“They invited her to a feast. A feast.”_ Leilani’s head has a strange tilt to it. It is from years of growing up in too small a cage. Though the monsters eventually cut through walls to expand her cell, it is not enough. She is a tall child.

 _“I’m not going to a feast.”_ Vilkas hears himself say. He knows he cannot stop the monsters. If they take him to the _feast_ , then he goes. But to deny the sentiment gives a sliver of control, a badly needed force in the mess of darkness.

 _“You are not.”_ Leilani blinks slowly. _“You aren’t invited. They told me. They told me who goes.”_

He remembers it now. He knows why he is not stuck in a waking nightmare. The memory is far worse than a nightmare, just as horrific and helpless without being _made up._ He sees the look of realization on Farkas’s face and imagines it mirrored on his dream-self’s body. Vilkas feels many emotions bubble up inside him. He cannot change the course of the dream. He cannot intervene. The memory plays out with the same intakes of breath he has replayed dozens of times. He feels his hands grip the cold bars in disbelief. _“—No. They can’t take you.”_

 _“I’m invited, Vilkas.”_ The teenager says.

 _“We won’t let them_.” The boy snaps. He feels the resolve burn in his soul, as vivid and real now as it is then.

 _“Can’t we do something?”_ Farkas whispers. _“Who’s gonna sing if they take you? It hurts. It hurts a lot! I’m hungry.”_

Vilkas stares forward as Leilani answers, _“You got to sing for yourself sometimes. I can’t sing anymore.”_

 _“Then who’s going to sing for you, Leilani?”_ Vilkas breathes. He grits his teeth and grips the bars tighter. His eyes water, but he refuses to look away. _“You can’t sing for yourself! What if you need a song?”_

 _“I can’t sing anymore.”_ She whispers. _“I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.”_

The monsters in masks did something to her. Something with the _feasts._ Something that terrifies her. Vilkas doesn’t know what, either as a fourteen-year-old boy or the thirty-four-year-old Companion he is now. He doesn’t know what, but he knows it must be _something_. They took away her will to sing the pain away. They took away one of the few things that brought Leilani a moment’s respite. Vilkas the Companion seethes at the thought. _I’ll find them and cut them all down. I’ll find out who did this to you. To us. To every single one of us left in the darkness._

 _“—I’ll sing for you.”_ Vilkas the scared child musters up the words. He keeps his gaze on the girl but a year older. _“Someone’s got to.”_

Leilani’s eyes widen. Her eyes water. _“You will?”_

_“If you tell me the words.”_

It takes a few minutes for the teenager to drag herself to the far side of her cell, where the bars meet those imprisoning Vilkas and Farkas. Leilani is worse up close. Her cheeks are hollow, her nails a _wreck,_ and dirt and grime cover her skin and leave it stained. But she holds a smile, one he remembers hoping to call his own twenty years ago. When she whispers the words, he nods, sucks in a breath, and begins.

Vilkas wakes up on his back. The sky overhead is a sea of clouds hiding pockets of stars, no auroras. Exhaustion continues to hang over his shoulders, but he can function without passing out every two seconds. When he looks over the ‘camp,’ he spots Mara the horse tied to a tree nearby. A dying fire continues to dance in a make-shift fire pit. Vinci isn’t present, but he can smell her. A minute later the footsteps come and he sees her approach from the west side of the camp, carrying two armfuls of sticks and twigs. The woman stops at the fire and begins feeding it fresh fuel.

“Morning.” Vilkas grunts. His body aches; he never did get out of his armor.

Vinci pauses. “It won’t be for another... For a bit.”

“—You didn’t wake me for—”

“You looked tired.” Her green eyes dim.

Vilkas looks to the side. “That all?”

“You did look tired. And,” the latter word makes the Companion tense. His gaze returns to hers, but Vinci peers at the fire as she speaks. Her hair is no longer in a braid but a mess on her shoulders and back. “…I wanted to know I could still be useful. I’m supposed to be a Silver Hand, aren’t I? But everything feels… Strange. I don’t even remember how to use a sword.”

“I can fix that.” The Companion scoots to the fire opposite of Vinci. He hesitates before stating. “—The sword. Not...”

“I know.” Vinci pauses. “The Silver Hand, not—”

Vilkas’s eyes soften. He lets the matter drop before either of the two make a bigger fool out of words. The man glances at the sky and grunts. “Nicer view on a mountain. But this… ain’t bad.”

“Have you gone to the Throat of the World?” Vinci meets his gaze. “One of my mothers used to tell me stories about it. About seeing the stars. Little bits of _Aetherius_ peeking through! I think it sounds beautiful.”

She is wonderfully enthusiastic about the words. Vilkas holds back his smile. He does not want to interrupt her. It is another new step in the mystery of _Vinci._ He nods at her to continue and makes a little note of everything she says, starting with, _Two moms. Likes the sky. Knows how to make an okay fire…_

And speak she does. The woman proves to be a mouthful, but not one Vilkas minds. The man sits and tosses sticks and log into the small fire while he listens to Vinci go on, on, on, _on._ It is not merely personal stories. It is tiny shreds of thought normally hidden by the woman’s own struggles. It is questions about how to cook eggs, struggles with enunciating the names of plants Vilkas has never heard of, and hopes and fears about bee stings, about fishing, and about owning a tiny home by a river one day. It is happy thoughts, sad thoughts, each and every feeling in-between put into words that sometimes come out wrong. It is a nervous, meek, cautious, careful, curious side of Vinci, but it is _a_ side of Vinci.

She trusts him more than she did before. She trusts him enough to express strange fixations on how she thinks squash is a fascinating vegetable from a distant land, how spiders can spin webs anywhere, yet no one can unravel their secrets, and how she thinks blue dresses are just as nice as gray dresses and as long as things _fit_ she doesn’t really care about the color. He grunts and nods, not understanding half of it but thrilled all the same. Vilkas finds he even smiles at one point, entranced by how Vinci uses her hands to gesture and emphasize certain words.

“—I want to learn how to use a sword again.” The sentence that reels him back in is one the woman says quietly. Vinci wrings her wrists. Her head does the head tilt thing and Vilkas watches her struggle to correct it, but succeed after the third try.

He hesitates. “—What kind of sword?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. Each one has different forms. Requires different muscles—What?” Vilkas finds her stare interesting rather than unnerving.

“I don’t remember the name of it.” Vinci brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She lays her head against her knees and mumbles, “I know the shape—I don’t… Not the kind.”

“So?” Vilkas yawns. He can see the break of dawn on the horizon, where the great and bright _Magnus_ is soon to rise. Vinci stares. This time it makes Vilkas shake his head. “We’ll stop at Warmaiden’s the way to Jorrvaskr. Adrienne can show you the different swords. Just find a familiar-shaped one, we’ll use that.”

He stiffens at the sight of Vinci’s frown. Vilkas watches her lift her head up, gaze dim and locked on the waning flames. Vinci adds several more sticks while she talks. “—I almost forgot I was a Silver Hand and you’re a—"

“—That doesn’t matter,” Vilkas cuts her off. His brows furrow. “It doesn’t matter to Farkas or to me.”

“It matters to the Companions.” Vinci states quietly. Her walls go back up, and Vilkas cannot stop them. The woman exhales softly and makes to stand. “I know your Harbinger wants to know about the Silver Hand. About it’s leaders. But I can’t just…” Her eyes water.

“Why not?” He challenges the claim, whatever it is. Vilkas rises to his feet. “What’s stopping you?”

“—They saved me from them.”

His eyes widen. “From…”

“The monsters in masks.” Vinci says softly. “The Silver Hand saved me from the darkness. Took me in. And then I betrayed them. My family.” She grits her teeth and wipes her eyes. What creeps into her voice is not fear but anger. _“Oblivion._ I regret it. But I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. Not when Krev butchered them! Why can’t Tulle see that? Why couldn’t he see that? That isn’t what the Silver Hand—" The woman cuts herself off and falls silent. Her shoulders slump. “Everything was so right for so long. Now it’s… a mess. I’m a mess.”

Vilkas doesn’t have words to offer. He can’t, when his thoughts return to spinning, dizzying circles of monsters in masks and the Silver Hand and the _darkness._ He doesn’t understand what any of it means, but he knows there _is_ meaning and it effects Vinci. He feels the familiar urge claw at him; he needs to protect her. He doesn’t know how when her biggest enemy is herself. The Companion stares at her back when she turns away.

“You’re… Vinci.” Vilkas offers softly.

 _“Vinci is dead.”_ The woman hisses. She grabs her head and exhales. “Vinci is… Vinci is strong. Vinci is brave. Vinci is courageous. Vinci is… Vinci… Vinci… Vinci…” She is panicking. He can smell the cold sweats when they break out over her body, taste the fear that comes from memories he isn’t privy to. Vilkas cannot stand the sight of it. He walks around the fire and tentatively puts a hand on the woman’s shoulder. When she doesn’t flinch away or shrug it off, the man pulls her into his grasp.

Vilkas exhales slowly and wills every last ounce of _safety comfort warm_ to pass to her.

“I’m scared of lots of things.” Vinci confesses quietly.

“A lot of folks are.” The Companion pauses. “Even us Companions—"

He stills when he feels the woman draw back and look up at him. Her eyes are so _green,_ full of color and emotions, story and silence, that they almost look like they don’t belong to her. Vilkas finds his heart jumps in his chest anyways; he can hear it pound in his ears, a nervous wreck waiting to happen. If it were another place, another set of circumstances, a better sky, a bigger fire—He wants to kiss her, he wants to embrace, and he claws at his insides in agony to stay composed.

“I’m not scared of you.” Vinci says. “Even though you’re a Companion.”

“Yeah. Good. Glad. I’m glad.” Vilkas leans his head down, resting his forehead against hers. It’s the only thing he can think to do when every other thought is _kiss her._

He’s grateful for Mara’s soft whine from the trees. The horse snorts loudly when neither Nord responds. Vilkas feels Vinci tense in his arms; he doesn’t try to keep her there when she pulls away. The man keeps his eyes clenched shut. His self-control remains in check. His wolf does not win. The _blood_ remains unsatisfied and in _need_ he will not give into; the call of bloodlust and a carnivorous desire to feast will be kept at bay for the time being.

 _Magnus_ rises overhead. Sunlight slowly bathes the area as dawn passes. As Vilkas readies Mara’s saddle, he hears Vinci walk up behind him. The Companion glances back at her. “Front or back?”

“Front.” Vinci climbs up first.

Vilkas settles in the saddle behind her. He feels the woman’s body tense when he leans forward to grab the reins. He frowns. “I can walk—"

“No,” Vinci cuts him off. She pauses. “I want… I don’t want that. I want the reins. I want to ride back to Whiterun.”

Vilkas pauses. He knows she has seen enough of him on horseback the past two weeks to have an idea of what to do. She could just as easily make Mara gallop the opposite direction. He doubts she could _escape_ with him _on_ the same horse, but it would make for a longer trip back. He stills when he sees Vinci look over her shoulder at him, green eyes dim and empty.

“I trust you,” Vilkas says.

The green eyes widen. Vinci turns to face front. Vilkas lets her take the reins from his hands at her own pace, her fingers gentle and slow in the movements. For a second that is too long and too short, her hands rest over his and trace the shapes of his gauntlets, a glimpse of the woman’s curiosity before her walls go back up.

“Can you… put your arms around me?” Vinci’s voice drops to a whisper.

“You want that?” the Companion doesn’t mean to blurt out the question, but tact was never his strong point.

“It makes me feel safe.” The woman answers. “I don’t know why. But you do.”

Vilkas hesitates. “…Alright.”

The ride back to Whiterun is a quiet one. Vilkas exhales silently when he feels Vinci relax under his grasp, careful not to crush her but not wanting to let go. He knows the last day in her search for _home_ did not go smoothly, but the man still sees the trip as a successful one. He knows more about her. He knows she is afraid of bee stings. He knows she likes to walk along river banks. He knows _he_ makes her feel safe.

Vilkas likes that he makes her feel safe. He likes that a lot.


	8. to the last drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rune is a dragonborn and a companion. he enjoys the lack of rent and amount of alcohol involved, but sometimes he needs to step in and help others. he tries his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter:  
> tw for menstruation  
> theres also like a mention of child abuse in a few lines in arcadia's cauldron
> 
> rune isn't a perspective that'll be around often but boy is it fun to write him  
> shout out if you know the song he has stuck in his head, rune was 100% an alternative nerd on earth

“I chime in with a… haven’t you people ever heard of… closing the damn door… How does the rest of that go?” The Dragonborn frowns, disgruntled at the song stuck on loop in his head. He sits on the edge of the bluff housing the Skyforge. The Imperial man’s deep brown eyes look hazel in the light, a reflection of all the tricks and shenanigans he has gotten up to since first waking up in Skyrim.

It isn’t so bad, being stuck in a video game. Or what he thinks is a video game. The man isn’t positive what is or is not real anymore. He knows for sure that it isn’t merely _fiction_ , because technology of his time is in no way capable of surpassing the brink of realism his eyes soak in. He knows it cannot be wholly _nonfiction_ , either, because he has an awareness that Tamriel is a fictional land of the Elder Scroll series. He knows this. Rune is very, very good at remembering that when things go horribly wrong.

The world is too _real_ for him not to discount the asinine theory he actually is part of a video game, or video game universe. The dragon at Helgen, the rush of wind when he slayed the flying beast threatening Whiterun, and the tears he cried when a courier handed him an inheritance and expressed condolences—It is all too _real._ Part of it has to be! It has to be, even if it is no game _he_ knows. He recalls the Elder Scrolls games only going up to _Oblivion,_ with the expansion for _Shivering Isles_ being the last he played through, and as an Imperial man named Rune no less. It is his favorite name, just like his favorite color is orange and his other favorite color is green. Split-color schemes is fun, and something he has posted about on his blog on more than one occasion.

 _I wonder if people miss me. Do they still read my blog posts? Am I considered a missing person?_ The twenty-eight-year-old man huffs and dangles his legs off the bluff. _My parents should. I never did reply to their email. And my boss, for sure. I wonder if time passes on Earth while I’m here? Does Earth even exists in Nirn? Mundus? Whatever this universe is called._

He has been in Skyrim for a little over seven months now, Dragonborn for six and a half, and Companion for a little over five. It is an exciting world completely different to the life of a travel blogger. He is not entirely at home in it, not _yet,_ but the friendly people of Whiterun and lack of terrifying winged reptiles capable of breathing fire have eased him into the lull of peace. As long as dragons don’t become a common occurrence, and he gets to do nothing but wave swords, drink rum, and revel in the astonishing number of hot men, he is happy. There is no rent, no need to worry about healthcare when restoration magic exists, and no end to adventures to be had.

He feels happy.

Footsteps draw him from his mind and back into the reality of a _Dragonborn._ He looks to the side, half-expecting to see Farkas coming up for a conversation about hunting, or fishing, or helping him figure out how to trade with the tongue-twister merchants of Whiterun’s markets, but to the man’s genuine surprise he sees the Companions _unofficial_ prisoner.

“Look who it is! It is you, and you are Vinci,” Rune grins and waves. He finds a satisfaction in shoving manners at everyone. The rest of Tamriel might consider him naïve or overly-optimistic but having the experience to run amuck with a _dragon spirit_ inside him is enough to satisfy his soul. He sees little reason to be rude, unless it is a case of him being seriously pissed off or him opting to throw shit at someone in a joking manner. The Dragonborn cocks his head to one side and gives Vinci a smile. “You can sit next to me.”

“…No thank you,” The woman hesitates. “I actually—I was wondering where everyone is today? Do you happen to know?”

She might be the enemy of the Companions, a member of the Silver Hand, and likely responsible for injuring or killing innocents at one point in her life, but she has manners and awareness to ask rather than assume! That counts for something in Rune’s book. _And she is Farkas’s old friend. His and Vilkas’s. Got to remember that. Though she really doesn’t act like she is…_ He trails off in thoughts.

“Oh, oh. Right. Did Vilkas and Farkas not tell you? Those two are in a _meeting._ A special kind of meeting I am not supposed to tell you about, so do _not_ let them know what I let you know. As for everyone else—A cave bear got spotted north, terrorizing a private home. But it’s got cubs. _So._ You can’t just kill the momma bear and it’s baby bears. You have to relocate them together and move them from the residence! Which is all kinds of trouble, I imagine, heavens knows Torvar has no self-restraint and Ria could use more patience. But hey, Kodlak thought it would be a good exercise in restraint and Shield-Sibling… ship. Or—You understand, I’m sure.” Rune inhales before the words continue.

He can say a lot of words very quickly, and the Dragonborn sees nothing wrong with that.

“Eorlund should be back with ore soon, guy ran to Warmaiden’s. I think Tilma is visiting Olava today. Then… I have no idea where Vignar or Brill are. Have you met them? Old guy and his friend? Eh, doesn’t matter,” he does not give Vinci a chance to speak, continuing on and on and on down the mental list of names in his head. “Then… Well. Actually. No, I am here. Me. Rune. Dragonborn. Hi.” Rune waves at her and grins. “So, what do you need?”

The look on Vinci’s face is one of panic. If it were at his words that would be one thing, but the way the woman’s green gaze widens and fear creeps on her face makes Rune hesitate. The Dragonborn’s usual perkiness and humor goes soaring out the window.

“…What?” Rune frowns. “Hey, you can talk to me. I’m not judging you too harshly for being a Silver Hand.”

“I’m not sure you can help me.” The woman states, honest but timid.

 _I have no idea where the Circle is and everyone else is out of Jorrvaskr today. Great._ Rune frowns. “Just—Look, I am the Dragonborn. I can help a lot of people. Also, I am a Companion, so that means I help more people than usual.”

She is holding her abdomen. If it was _his_ world, land of rent and passport renewals, he might be concerned over something to do with an appendix. He has yet to see anyone die in Tamriel from appendix issues, although Rune is certain cardiac arrest exists. The man knows a poison recipe for that; he is not keen on sharing.

“I woke up bleeding.” Vinci shuts her eyes.

“Bl—Oh. Oh. _Oh._ Okay.” Rune pauses. He was not expecting that degree of realism. If the world turns out to be a video game, he’ll write a five-star-review on the details. The Dragonborn rises to his feet and frowns. He glances around Jorrvaskr; not a soul remains in sight. _Not a big deal. Where do people in a hypothetically-fictional land go to handle menstruation? She seems jumpy. Should hold off on the general goods store, clerk is questionable at best. Maybe the alchemy shop? Arcadia is a nice woman. An alchemist seems like the equivalent to a pharmacist in Tamriel, so._

“Good news. This is not a disaster, though I understand you might think it is. But I—I had a teenage sister growing up. I know how to handle this,” Rune assures the Nord. He is not certain he convinces her, but he musters a confident nod. “Follow me.”

The Dragonborn is only mildly fazed by how Vinci says nothing the short hike. He does not push her to talk. According to what Farkas told of him the past week, she has an entire story and _then_ some for a past. Rune maintains his smile as he chatters and rambles on about the Gildergreen, the districts of Whiterun, and the shop he leads the woman to. Arcadia’s Cauldron is a humble business located in the Wind district, plopped directly in front of the plaza. The shop windows are big and open to give a look at the disgusting but highly efficient ingredients of the expanding world of alchemy. Beautiful flowers are planted in pots flanking the entrance. Rune gestures for Vinci to follow him in.

It is pleasant inside. Arcadia has bunches of _frost mirriam’s_ hanging overhead, providing a cool, minty aroma to newcomers. The man waves at Arcadia behind the counter, the latter a tall and wry Imperial woman with one too many Daedra hearts in hand. Arcadia puts the organs on a plate on a shelf and wipes her hands on her apron. “Back again, Rune? I’m sorry, but I have yet to restock on healing potions. If you need one, you’ll have to buy the ingredients yourself.”

“None have come in? Really?” The Dragonborn frowns, momentarily distracted.

“The shipment was delayed. Courier came in a day ago.” The Imperial woman pauses and turns to Vinci. “Who is your friend? She looks sick to her stomach—”

“It’s not the Rattles.” Rune remarks quickly. The man tilts his head to one side. “Or Ataxia.”

“Ataxia _is_ a problem in Cyrodiil.” Arcadia huffs and leans against the store counter. She squints. “I don’t think you’ve come in here before, have you? Welcome to Arcadia’s Cauldron. If there’s anything I can help you with, feel free to ask.”

When Vinci hesitates, Rune decides to push on with the subject at hand and quickly asserts, _“Menstruation!”_

It is worth Arcadia’s stare. The Dragonborn knows Vinci would rather have attention on _him_ than on her. Rune clears his throat and taps a foot.

“Ah. Of course, only the Dragonborn would endeavor me with topics from all walks of life. What is your name, dear?” The shopkeeper turns to Vinci, who tenses.

“—This is Vinci. She is currently in the company of the Companions for time unknown.” Rune clears his throat. He remembers Farkas warning him about the woman’s tendencies to go off about being called Vinci. He has no idea if it is really her name, but he intends to use it and keep the conversation flowing. _No point dragging out this needlessly painful conversation._

“Well.” Arcadia clears her throat. “If you’re in the company of the Companions, I trust the bill to be sent to them.”

“Of course! Since when do we ever walk out on payment?” Rune scoffs. When Arcadia begins to answer, he snaps upright and states. “Just—Send an _invoice_ to Jorrvaskr. Aela usually handles this side of things.”

“Very well, Dragonborn. Vinci, I will need to ask you a few questions. I don’t mean to be blunt, but I need to know if you’re looking for relief from the pain of bleeding or if you want something longer-lasting? Most of the Companions, regardless of gender, stop by here at some point for contraceptives. If that is the goal I have several brews that will help you—” Arcadia pauses. The woman frowns. “You know what? Let me take a look at my personal stock. I have something in mind. Wait here.” The shopkeeper is in the back room before Rune can blink.

He stares, mainly, but the woman’s nimbleness still astounds him. Arcadia is an experienced shopkeeper. He is surprised more people have not gone to her. The lady could easily earn a place among the Jarl’s court as an alchemist, yet the Jarl does not acknowledge her work. _Maybe I can ask her about it sometime._

“Thank you.” The words are soft and sweet.

Rune frowns and looks to the side. He eyes Vinci, but not for _too_ long, recalling her own reluctance with the matter in the first place. The man’s eyes soften. “Like I said. I had a little sibling growing up. My parents did a shit job teaching us to be independent, so I tried to wrestle the world. Learn its ways so she didn’t have to.”

“I had a brother once.” Vinci speaks so quietly Rune wonders if she spoke at all. The woman exhales. “I miss him.”

“What happened to him?” Rune frowns.

“He… was loud.” The woman mumbles. “So they—They took him instead. They took him and… They killed him. The monsters. The monsters in masks. It should have been me. It should have been me.”

“Hey—Hey, don’t say that.” Rune frowns. He peers at the woman’s green eyes, empty and blank. It is a bad look for her. Rune swallows and tries to backtrack the topic. “Why don’t you tell me about him? What was his name?”

“Vinci.”

The Dragonborn tenses. He can see what Farkas meant when the man told him Vinci had a past _and then some_. He swallows his nerves and nods. “Alright. His name was Vinny—”

_“Vinci.”_

“Right. And, um, can you remind me what your name is again?”

“I _am_ Vinci.” The woman’s words are spoken matter-of-factly, not an inkling of hesitation in the statement.

Rune bites his lip. “Did you or Vinci have any other siblings?”

“No.”

“So, just—I’m trying to make sure I do not misunderstand—” The Dragonborn holds up his hands. He feels weirdly defensive, like _he_ needs to justify asking the strange woman questions. “So there is you—And there is _Vinci_. So, what do others call you? If they were to describe you two, you and your brother, in the same sentence?”

“My brother’s name is Vinci. Vinci is… He is… I’m Vinci. I am Vinci. Vinci is _strong_ and _brave_ and _courageous_. Vinci. I am Vinci…” The woman’s words begin to repeat, an empty look taking over her features.

Rune clears his throat. Vinci snaps upright and looks at him, watching carefully. The man bites his lip. “Alright, Vinci, let me go check on Arcadia and make sure she hasn’t gotten lost in… her own shop.”

He feels lucky the woman is going through a mental loop because his excuse is piss poor and highly suspicious. Rune ducks to the back and shuts the door behind him. He hears Arcadia rummaging in a box. The shopkeeper calls to him. “You can’t be back here, Dragonborn—”

“Do you have a potion that lets me see magic? The effects of magic, what isn't usually visible to the naked eye.” Any semblance of humor, of mirth, and of nonchalant high-strung spirits dies as Rune speaks the question. His gaze narrows. “Arcadia.”

The older woman frowns. “You will have to pay for it. This is a business, not a charity.”

“Send the bill to Jorrvaskr. I need to check something and I don’t know shouts for it.” Rune speaks quietly. “ _Laas._ ”

As the shout of _Aura Whisper_ flares red blobs in his vision, Rune can see Vinci has not moved from where she stands. The woman occasionally looks around, but she does not wander. Rune bites his lip. He nods in appreciation when Arcadia hands a vial of murky gray liquid. He uncaps the potion, pinches his nose, and drinks it before the chunks have time to fall into his mouth. The man shivers and shudders regardless. When he opens his eyes, his vision remains the same.

“It does not see through walls. It also… might not work all the time. Never was a seller, that one.” Arcadia frowns and taps her chin. She pulls a small blue bottle from a lock box and shakes it. The liquid inside begins to glow, emitting light from the bottle. The alchemic reaction lasts only a moment before it fades. The woman nods and walks to Rune; she pushes open the door.

The Dragonborn’s face drains of color.

“—Here you are, dear.” Arcadia hands the blue bottle to Vinci. The woman nods. Arcadia pauses and glances at Rune from the side. “ _Dragonborn,_ are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Rune lies. He walks to Vinci, grabs her hand, and pulls the woman out of the shop with a call of, “Send the bill to Jorrvaskr!”

He decides not to react right away. He does not think telling Vinci would do her any good, and he does not want Arcadia to get ideas and spread rumors. He sees to Vinci settling on a bench around the Gildergreen before he hightails it back to Jorrvaskr. On the way, he can see _many_ things, from the pale yellow of restoration recently applied to the white of alteration magic castings on a person. When Rune arrives, it is in time to hear a great rumble of stone move below the Skyforge. Rune walks briskly around the mead hall and stops at the sight of a _massive_ corridor being shut by a wall of sliding rock, members of the Circle surrounding it.

Rune wants to throw his hands in the air in disbelief. He doesn’t, too busy standing shocked at the four Companions present.

Red-haired Aela huffs and crosses her arms when attention turns to the Dragonborn. “Shield-Brother. What is it?”

“It’s because you’re all werewolves, right?” The Dragonborn blurts out. “That’s why…”

He can feel eyes turn to him. Skjor’s is perhaps the most humored, whereas Farkas looks increasingly concerned. Rune looks between him and Vilkas while his thoughts scramble.

“—Rune.” Farkas frowns.

“Arcadia is a really good alchemist.” The Dragonborn feels a headache come on. He exhales softly and makes to lean against the walls of the mead hall. He shuts his eyes and rubs his forehead. “Are you four done with your meeting?”

“For now.” Aela states curtly.

“We’re _done._ ” Vilkas snaps.

“I don’t think you have the right to say that when you up and left for two weeks.” The huntress’s words are sharp and cold.

“I didn’t ask for reminders.” Vilkas crosses his arms.

Rune wants to lay on the ground. He doesn’t. He is certain something happened between the four given unbridled tension, but he cannot find it in him to care. He is relieved to see the effects of Arcadia’s potion fade when he looks back at the members of the Circle. The Companions are once again themselves. No trace of Hircine’s magic is visible, though Rune is smart enough to know the werewolves are still werewolves sworn to the Daedric Prince. He had enough of a run around with Princes in _Oblivion_ to remember that.

Rune hesitates. He sees four sets of eyes turn to him. The man looks to the side. “You guys can smell things, right?”

“That you haven’t had a bath in four day.” Aela remarks. Her words make Skjor smile but the twins remain unamused, Vilkas seething mad over something while Farkas looks on mostly out of concern.

The Dragonborn sighs. He briefly considers trying to single out Farkas, but he knows the werewolf would eventually tell Vilkas, and at some point, word would get back to the rest of the Circle anyways. They are all Companions. They can trust each other. It isn’t like the werewolves are personal agents of Hircine, sworn to carry out his orders! They have free will. Rune hopes they have free will. He does not like the idea of messing with Nirn’s equivalent of gods.

“I think Vinci is a werewolf.” Rune states.

The Circle glances at each other before Aela and Skjor burst out laughing. Even Vilkas pauses, momentarily halted in whatever spurns his anger, and he peers quizzically at the Dragonborn. Farkas frowns and looks from Rune to Vilkas.

“She is no werewolf. Vilkas would’ve picked it up in the compound.” Aela clears her throat. She smiles crookedly and shrugs. “That didn’t happen.”

“It didn’t. She is not one of us.” Vilkas sounds reluctant to agree with his Shield-Sister.

“Are you sure?” Rune bites his lip.

“What happened?” Farkas’s gaze narrows.

“I took a potion to see magic and she lit up like a zoo at Christmastime. Again, that is a thing where _I_ am from,” the Dragonborn averts his gaze to the side. He hears silence and takes it as a cue to continue. “All of you lit up _red._ Daedric influence. Lycanthropy, right?”

“How do we know Daedric is red?” Skjor voices the question quietly.

“Because it is the only _magic_ we share between us. The gift of the _blood._ ” Aela answers for the group. “But it is not truly magic. Nor is it a disease. It is innate, the blessing of the Huntsman to our flesh.”

“Well, it counted, so.” Rune sighs. “I really hate being a downer—And this is cutting into my me time—But you all should… I mean,” he hesitates. He isn’t giving _them_ an order. That would make him in charge, and Rune is _not_ a person to be handed responsibilities. The Companions aren’t known for leaders in the first place. He swallows. “—If you _want to_ —You could check again.”

“Farkas.” Vilkas looks at his brother. His gaze darkens. “Can you?”

“Can and will, brother.” Farkas answers.

“What kind of meeting pisses everyone off?” Rune recoils a step backward at the glare Vilkas gives him. “Hey! It is a genuine question! You were in a much better mood this morning! It isn’t _my_ fault for what your Circle says and do’s!”

“Shield-Brother,” Aela clears her throat. “You need not insert yourself into his messes. This is his problem.”

“ _Messes.”_ Vilkas growls.

“Your interest in the Silver Hand has become an _obsession_ , Shield-Brother!” Aela turns and snaps. Her hands drop to her sides and she tenses them into fists.

“Complain to the Harbinger! Kodlak asked me to babysit her!” Vilkas spits.

“Vilkas.” Farkas puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It is shoved away.

“Not a _word_ from you,” the man warns his brother.

“You abandoned your duties to the Companions,” Farkas speaks anyways. Rune is glad he does; the man is a member of the Circle and deserves respect regardless if the twins are siblings or not. Farkas’s gaze narrows. He grits his teeth and adds, “ _Two. Weeks._ Nothing from you. Whelps got worried. Ria was a mess.”

“I’ll make it up to her.”

 _Oh, this is about that._ Rune had already almost forgotten the two-week vacation Vilkas went off on, mucking about with the Companion’s Silver Hand on some open-ended adventure. If Farkas and Aela weren’t already chewing him out, the Dragonborn might add in a couple verbal jabs. The amount of disappointment in Ria’s eyes over Vilkas’s absence made him want to drag the man back by the ear. The genuine worry Rune saw in Farkas made Rune go out riding on Kellogs and looking for Vilkas himself, behind the backs of the Circle. Farkas is a lot of things, but he is a very, _very_ good friend, and Rune will not tolerate even his brother when it comes to genuinely upsetting him.

Rune decides to slip away while the two brothers and Aela bat back and forth, each increasingly more tense and wound-up. If a fist-fight breaks out, he intends to cheer for Farkas. The Dragonborn jumps when Skjor plops next to him on Skyforge’s raised bluff. Rune exhales sharply and gives the man a glance. He does not know Skjor well, possibly the least of all the Companions, but he respects him and his abilities in combat.

“You thought more of Gallows Rock? Figured I’d ask while those three _discuss_ shit.” Skjor grunts. The man’s eyes, one scarred-white and the other a deep, watchful blue, eyes Rune for reaction.

Rune keeps his face calm. He offers the same sly smile he does countless others. “Yeah. I have. I’m interested in tagging along, but I expect provisions to be accounted for.”

“Figures. I’ll make arrangements.” Skjor nods. He frowns and glances at the mess below, Aela being the one to stand between two shouting brothers. “Those three got good heads on their shoulders when whelps like you ain’t thrashing them.”

“It was a good fight.” Rune offers.

“Vilkas got knocked on his ass. Can’t let him fo’get it.” The man grins.

The statement makes Rune huff. “Now there’s an idea. Remind him now, make Vilkas _actually_ murder me. I’ll pass.”

“Meant in jest. You should know, you’re one of us in spirit.” Skjor pauses and turns to him. “You ‘eally think a Daedra’s got claws in our Silver Hand?”

“Truthfully? I don’t know. She is a mess and a half. If magic is involved… Who knows what is really responsible.” The Dragonborn frowns. He admires Aela’s patience, but even he would have stepped out by now. The ginger-haired woman’s attempt to free Farkas from his brother’s grapple is persistent. Rune hesitates. “I’m not… a member of the Circle, Shield-Brother. But if I was—I might _advise_ to keep the Silver Hand on a leash. No more two-week meanderings.”

“Aye, I’d drink to that.” Skjor says.

When Rune pulls a pack off his hip and rummages, the Companion stares. Rune flashes a look of pure mischief as he pulls out a bottle of alto wine and holds it out. “Two shots Farkas wins this.”

“Two shots he don’t.” Skjor huffs. “None of ‘em will win but Aela. She’s got the brains _and_ brawl.”

Rune hums thoughtfully. His eyes soften when he spots the Nord tearing Vilkas off him, rearing back a punch that hits home. Aela stays back, but the member of the Circle has a penchant for brawls and it is only a matter of time before the woman leaps back into the mess. The Dragonborn uncorks the wine bottle and sets it to the side. “And if Vilkas wins?”

Skjor grins, “We drink to the last drop!”

Both men laugh.


	9. i'm vinci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci does not want to talk to kodlak ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw child abuse  
> also heavy heavy implications / allusion to cannibalization 
> 
> this involves some heavy hallucinating on vinci's end  
> so scenes might just come out of nowhere

The Skyforge is beautiful. It is not _safe,_ and nor is the Gildergreen, but both are _beautiful._ They offer magnificent silver figures even under the sunlight, ones without any strings attached. No headaches happen, no migraines spring on her, and she gets the opportunity to enjoy Skyrim’s summer heat without a soul to join her.

 _Nine days._ She counts on her fingers, ignoring the blare of Eorlund Gray-Mane’s smithing at the forge. Vinci frowns. It feels like only a day ago she was climbing off a horse named Mara and walking back into Whiterun. That evening had been lovely. She sat by Vilkas in the mead hall that night and even made small talk with the Companion named Ria, who happily chatted off the hour under a glass of ale’s influence. Though some Companions held their stares, Vinci felt better about things. Vilkas was there. Even when he was sighing and replying to one of the Circle’s comments, he was _there._ His proximity brought a rare moment of peace.

She felt happy with him. Sometimes his hand would drift to hers and linger.

In the month and a bit since she first got carried out of the Silver Hand compound, her body slowly recovered. Though at present she lacks much muscle—it takes time to build up, she remembers that—her body recovered enough to restart the cramp-inducing process of bleeding the day after she got back. It should be a good sign; she is healing. She is growing. For a person who has spent over two-thirds her life imprisoned, she knows she has much to be grateful over, to feel pride for. She did not feel grateful _or_ proud when she woke up that morning, a mess on the cot. Though the matter did get sorted out in the end—the Dragonborn is her hero, even if she doubts his legendary capabilities on occasion—Vinci was a wreck for most of that day. 

Come evening, she had hoped to see Vilkas, but he nursed strange injuries. So had Farkas and Aela, oddly enough, though Aela carried hers with a smug grin. Vilkas had refused her company.

 _Nine days._ Vinci counts them on her fingers again. _He’s a busy man._

If she weren’t a Silver Hand and he a Companion, she might dare to think something like _is he avoiding me?_ But she is a Silver Hand. Vilkas holds little allegiance to her beyond their shared childhood. He has _Companion things_ to do.

 _Yesterday he went out on a hunt with Ria. Does she know there’s a difference between elk and deer? Elk run fast when they are scared._ Vinci’s brows furrows. _Can she pull Vilkas up if he falls off a saddle? Does Vilkas promise to train her and then never do it?_ The last thought leaves a foul taste in her mouth. She inhales deeply and shoves the thought from her mind. Vilkas owes her nothing. He is a Companion, off doing Companion things that she is not privy to.

She needs to do something more. She needs to feel useful. It isn’t enough to follow Tilma around and assist with the daily tasks of Jorrvaskr’s upkeep. She needs _more._ If her body is healed enough to bleed once a month, it better be healed enough to do shit. She wants to be more than a person the Companions keep around in event she talks. She wants to learn to fight. On a day where Rune tagged along—followed, insisted, kept watch over her—the two went to the Warmaiden’s, a blacksmith shop at Whiterun’s main game. She had the opportunity to test out swords of varying weights, lengths, and design. Though the steel longsword came close, none of them were what she used.

 _But it’s a start. I can learn again. I will learn again. I don’t need Vilkas to teach me._ The woman exhales softly. _I can… ask that woman at Warmaiden’s if she’s hiring. I saw Tulle and Krev smith before. I know how to do it._

“Mind if I join you?” The voice of a man notoriously manipulative makes her flinch to the side. Vinci eyes him with caution when Kodlak sits on the bluff near her. The elderly Companion musters a friendly smile and nods at her. “You come out here often. I thought… it would be good to talk again. You’ve been here over a month, now.”

“Imprisoned over a month.” Vinci corrects him.

Kodlak whistles at Eorlund. The blacksmith stops in his work and glances over his shoulder at the two. At Kodlak’s nod, Eorlund grunts and begins packing up his tools. He leaves the Skyforge five minutes later. Silence settles around Silver Hand and Companion alike. The Harbinger returns his gaze to Vinci and gives her a sharp look. “You are not a prisoner, Silver Hand. The Companions offer you respite from your former allies. Not hostility. Have you been starved? Whipped? Branded?” At Vinci’s hiss, Kodlak frowns. “My apologies, I forgot the last one. Point is—You do not need to fear us.”

“You keep me alive because you want me to talk!” Her words have a bit to them. She grits her teeth. “I tried to leave. You sent a Dragonborn and two Companions to bring me back.”

“I did not. They left of their own volition.” Kodlak smiles broadly. “I would not say they brought you back. Vilkas eventually returned with you at his side. Did you choose to come back?”

His words are one of the few things that agitate her rather than worry her. She feels real anger beneath the surface of her shells. It is nipped in the bud, but for a moment Vinci bares her teeth and states sharply. “—He didn’t let me say no!”

“Did you choose to come back?” Kodlak repeats. He is a calm man, dressed in a long shirt and smooth slacks corralled by a belt. It is strange to see him in civilian clothes.

Almost as strange as his question. Which, like everything else he says, has a double meaning to it. It reminds Vinci she did not say _no_. She said she was leaving. Rune asked her, _politely,_ not to do that. The Dragonborn was the one to point out how asinine an idea it was, without so much a scrap of metal to defend herself with.

Vinci’s gaze dims. She stares forward. Her will to snap back at the elder Companion dies with her stare across Jorrvaskr. She sees many Companions outside and enjoying the sun: she sees Farkas listening to Rune talk, she sees Torvar laughing and drinking mead while Athis and Njada go toe-to-toe sparring. She sees Tilma hanging up sheets to dry on a clothesline. She sees Eorlund walking toward the markets in the distance, a small speck of a huge man against much shorter civilians.

She chose to come back.

“Does it matter?” The woman asks him. “I came back. What does it change?”

“Consider it: _why_ do you come back here? What draws you to these grounds, these people?” Kodlak lifts a brow. “You are, what? Thirty? Thirty-one?”

“Thirty-five. I think.” Vinci throws the number out with a shrug.

“You are a woman with a lot of experience. You know, somewhere under thirty-five years of life, there is a reason for your choice. Perhaps you argue it is that we are less of two evils. I do not agree with that. I think you have a reason. I think,” the elderly Companion’s eyes soften. He puts a hand on Vinci’s shoulder. “You are… scared of it. Scared of that little speck inside yourself and what it could mean. The world is a lot bigger outside a cage. It is loud and colorful, full of life and love and serenity. But it can be scary… It can be full of grief. You accept one side of the septim with the other.”

She shoves his hand off. Vinci shuts her eyes. She does not like his words. She does not like how precariously they border on _things_ she knows he is trying to raise to the surface. The Harbinger is attempting to invoke the past. The woman exhales. “What do you want to know? I am tired.”

“I want to know who you are, Silver Hand,” Kodlak asserts. “I want to know the truth behind the woman who is ensnared so deeply with two of my Companions.”

“I’ve told you truth—”

“—No. No, you haven’t. Not intentionally. You are a terrible liar, but this is a lie beyond mortal capabilities.” The Harbinger cuts her off. The words confuse her; she looks back at the man but finds Kodlak’s gaze rests only on the clear sky overhead. Kodlak sighs slowly. “Do you like your name, Vinci?”

“It is strong and courageous.” The woman states.

“You know… they say the priests of old, the followers of _Alduin_ , World-Eater, they were given names of the _dov_ tongue. Powerful names to reflect their positions. Their prestige. Names have power. Names give and names take. Do you agree?” Kodlak voices the thoughts without hesitation. The man smiles gently at her.

She is reluctant to admit she does. “Yes.”

“What power does your name have?” The Harbinger rises to his feet. He looks down and Vinci stares up, unwilling to budge. Kodlak chuckles softly. “It is a question I need an answer to. What power rests behind your name? Prestige? Position? Why did your parents give you this name, Vinci? What is the sentiment put into it? Perhaps it reflects love. Perhaps it is a name you picked yourself! I know Aela picked her name. She took many moons deliberating on it. A story for another time; right now I want to know about _yours_.”

“I’m Vinci.” Vinci states.

“More than that, Vinci. I want to know about your name.”

“I… I don’t know how to answer that.” The woman confesses softly. The brief interlude in her shell prompts Kodlak to nod.

The man hesitates a moment before going on. “—I think Vinci is the name of your brother.”

“Vinci is my brother.” The woman quietly affirms.

“I think… Your parents made a preposterous mistake. Terrible. Terrible,” the words are humored but insulting and Vinci snaps her head to stare at the man. It is not anger but shock and disbelief that the crafty, cunning, silver-tongued Harbinger would openly insult someone like that, least of all her dead mothers. Kodlak grins and tilts his head at her. “Who names their children _Vinci_ and _Vinci_? The same name? And you and your brother—The only children of the family! Makes for quite the misunderstandings, doesn’t it? Always getting mixed up? It seems utterly irrational, doesn’t it?”

Vinci freezes. She stares. “Stop it.”

“I don’t believe you are named Vinci. I believe your brother’s name was Vinci. But your parents,” Kodlak carries on anyways, speaking clearly and slowly despite the woman’s growing discomfort. “—They were _smart women_. They didn’t name you both Vinci! No, that means you have a different name. You picked the name Vinci. Who was, coincidentally, your twin, and the only _Vinci_ present in the darkness—”

“Stop it! _Shut up!”_ The woman shouts the words. She understands the words now. Kodlak goaded her into a corner, forced her down a slope she cannot climb up. He did not go out of his way to insult her parents; he used them against her.

“—Which brings us back to who _you_ are.” Kodlak meets her gaze when she rises to her feet. His eyes are soft but full of resolve. “If there is already a Vinci—You must be the other child in the darkness. The only other child in that cage—”

Companions are looking. She doesn’t care. Her eyes well up with tears. She is losing control of herself, of her stability, of what she tries to be. The woman clamps her hands over her ears, but it doesn’t drown out the noise.

“—Is Leilani.”

 _Leilani is weak. Leilani is tired. Leilani is weak. Leilani is tired. Leilani cries. Leilani is scared. Leilani weeps. Leilani whimpers. Leilani…_ The thoughts loop through her head over and over. _Leilani is weak. Leilani is weak. Leilani is weak. Leilani is weak._

Leilani is terrified of the world. Leilani does not escape the darkness. Leilani sings to others, but only one ever sings back. Leilani is many things, but Leilani is mostly dead. Leilani remembers how she died. Leilani remembers how they took her to a feast. Leilani remembers how they cut her own. Leilani cries. Leilani cries. Leilani cries. Leilani is scared. Leilani cries. Leilani cries. Leilani cries.

_Vinci is dead._

_Leilani is dead._

_Both dead. Both dead. Both dead._

She doesn’t know if she is Leilani or Vinci or both or none. Sometimes the nightmares lead her to spend hours awake staring at the ceiling. Sometimes the nightmares make her think it is all in her head, a made-up story about a set of twins destined for defeat. The voice in the darkness tells her it is in her destiny, the dabbling of fates the Harbinger foretold. _Vinci_ is to be defeated, to fall, to break, to crumble. Vinci is dead. The voice is right. Her beloved brother is dead, and he died so she could live a second longer before the monsters in masks dragged her out and wasted her away for a feast.

Some nights sleep comes in brief memories. Happier times flit through her mind and she wakes with tears on her cheeks and in her eyes. The happy times are dead, just like Vinci, like Leilani, like herself. She cannot call herself a dead child’s name forever. She cannot pretend there is life in her rot. She pretends, but she knows one day she will wake up from a living dream and come face-to-face with all the years of grief she built inside herself. She wants to be strong just a moment longer, but the moment is gone. Vinci is dead.

Multiple arms hold her down. She feels a sharp pain in her back from someone’s knee. There is shouting, there is crying, there is pain. Pain, pain, pain. A reminder the corpse that walks by many names is still a living, breathing _thing_. She is alive. She feels dead. She is a mess of weeping wails among a half-dozen voices that alternate between crying and screaming at her to shut up. Her eyes are too watery to make out the scene, but she knows there was an old man standing next to her a while ago. She knows he said a name. A name that was and is and will always be wrong, because she wants to pretend what she is not just a second longer.

“You _fucker!”_ She feels someone strike her jaw. A moment later, another one comes. She can feel the full force of hate and anger—rage, rage, rage—behind Aela’s punch. “We should never let her outside! Never! Never! This is our fault!”

Blood drips down her nose. The Silver Hand is a silent mess when the next strike comes. She feels something inside her face move in a way it is not supposed to. Pain rings through her jaw and something falls on her tongue. She’s lost a tooth.

“Aela— _Aela!”_ Farkas shouts.

 _Again. Again. Again. Again._ The Silver Hand thinks after each hit. By the time they stop, she’s a crumpled mess held aloft by arms of people that do not care for her. They shouldn’t. They are a group devoted to Prince Hircine, Lord of the Hunt, and Father of Lycanthropy. She is a member of the Silver Hand, a group built off the back of a disgraced Vigilant of Stendarr, Divine of Mercy. _Ten years ago, I would have done the same. Ten years ago… and today._

“What happened?” The Dragonborn’s voice comes from the side. He is a Legendary Hero, and a person with a kind heart.

“—Ask _her._ ” Aela hisses. “Ask Kodlak’s _fucking_ body, Rune!”

“He’s alive,” Rune interjects. “He’s alive! Aela!”

 _“She tried to kill him._ ”

“But he’s alive!”

 _“She pushed him off!”_ The woman sounds like she is near hysterics.

 _I pushed him off._ The Silver Hand thinks, feels, breathes. _I pushed the Harbinger off the edge._

“Vinci—Vinci!” New arms grabs her. Farkas’s voice is close. “Why did you—”

The Silver Hand gurgles a weak reply, “ _He_ _deserved it._ ”

The man’s punch hurts a lot more than Aela’s.

She is a prisoner when she comes to. The woman is flopped on the floor, a mess of an aching, bruised body. At least the Companions had the gall to find someone to restorate her tooth back into place. She runs her tongue over it and hisses at the tenderness still present. Vinci cannot see beyond an encompassing darkness, save for the shapes of silver that impose a terrible headache should she stare at them too long. She does not entirely remember what led to that point, but she knows something must have, and it must have been bad, because she hurts and hurts and hurts. Her body instinctively curls up into a ball on the cold, grimy cell floor.

She is not even in Jorrvaskr anymore. She knows, because they do not use traditional cells. She knows, because they are Companions and Companions _help_ people. She knows, because she did not help anyone. She shoved the Harbinger, the beloved counselor, off a bluff. She did not kill him, because she doubts she would still be alive if she murdered the old fuck. She both regrets and is sorely relieved to believe she did not kill him. The woman stares into the darkness, faint silver shapes looming in the background. She does not know what they are except for the fact they are _life._

It is a long time before someone comes to find her. The guard is dressed in a set of Hold Guard attire, complete with a helm to cover the face. The guard holds a lamp in one hand as they stride forward and stop beyond the bars of the cell. Vinci does not sit or stand or rise. She shuts her eyes tight as the guard’s companion speaks gruffly. “You attempt’d to murder a good man, Silver Hand. Kodlak Whiteman is respect’d ‘cross all Holds, even where the Empire treads.”

 _It doesn’t matter._ The Silver Hand breathes. She grunts in pain when the door is unlocked and slammed into her side. It will leave bruises on her shoulder, that is for sure. The guard drags her up and out. For a single Hold Guard, the person is remarkably strong. Vinci forces her eyes open and stares at one Vignar Gray-Mane. He is an older Companion, much like Kodlak, only his age dominates his mind and no silver-tongued words flow from his lips.

Vignar frowns as he walks. It is, oddly enough, the Hold Guard who leads the duo down a dark corridor. The Hold Guard needs only one arm to drag Vinci’s corpse with them. Vignar follows without another word.

Something isn’t right. Vinci’s mind is a whirl. _These aren’t Whiterun prisoners. This isn’t a place in Whiterun. I’m not in Whiterun. Where am I? Where is Vinci?_

She does not know where Vinci is, but she knows where _Leilani_ is. The woman’s eyes widen when a set of double doors _bursts_ open and reveals a massive, ornate chamber. A table spans the length of the room and an altar waits at the farthest end, complete with an ominous stone table stretched across it. Vinci’s eyes water and she struggles to break free of the Hold Guard’s grip. She finds herself even weaker than she was, a mess of thin, small limbs and feeble cries. The Hold Guard is no guard at all; she looks up and sees the form of a monster in a thin mask staring back at her. The monster is of man, because the hands that grip her are tight and full of fingers. She wheezes for water. Her hair is a mess around her, frayed and disheveled.

 _“Friends!”_ What was once Vignar clears his throat and stands. The table is set now; the room is full of people in masks, each as nauseating as the last. The figure that was once Vignar is no Vignar at all; when Leilani looks she makes out the dizzying figure of a face she held dear. She sees the smooth skin, long black hair, and twinkling eyes of her mother staring back at her from a crowd of compatriots.

 _I’m invited._ She wants to go back to the cages. She wants to go back to the darkness. She has comfort in the darkness, in the thin twins adjacent her cell. She has companionship in them. She has safety. Even if the monsters take her out, as long as she has them she will survive. She _can_ survive. She wants to survive.

 _“Today, a soiled lamb is brought before us… We have waited long enough for the herd to thin!”_ Leilani feels herself forced to her knees. Her head is made to bow at an uncomfortable angle. She feels eyes on her, eyes that bear deep holes and disgusting interest at her suffering. _“—No more! The time has come for us to prepare our disgust, to build our repulsion. For what greater sin is there than a mother taking her own kin and leading the lamb to the butcher?”_

_“No greater!”_

_“To the butcher! The butcher!”_

Her mother is pleased by the words. The woman’s daunting smile once sung lullabies to her and her brother, a force to be reckoned with against the terrors under the bed. The lady gestures the monsters in masks to go forward. Leilani is dragged, screaming, kicking, and thrashing, across the stone floor to the far end of the room. The ground scraps her knees and her legs become a bloody mess in the fight to break free. The one time a monster fumbles, the teenager is grabbed by two more. People laugh and joke amongst themselves.

She is forced to stand next to the altar and face the crowd. Someone whistles. Another cheers. Her mother hums in awe. It feels like a dream when her finger is pricked and the blood smeared across the table. The magic of an ancient darkness fills the room. The woman feels her body distort beyond her control. Leilani’s mind detaches from her body and the Silver Hand watches as her form climbs up unto the altar, compelled by the pull of a Daedric god to lay down. Her mother praises her. She feels sick to her stomach. She cannot look away when her mother pulls the knife and makes the cut along the fold of her neck. She feels fingers trace her scar where the cut is made. The Silver Hand clenches her eyes shut and hisses softly. _Leilani is dead. Leilani is dead. Leilani is dead._

“Vinci?” It is the Dragonborn.

Her body hurts. She cannot tell memory from reality, flashback from the present. She struggles to move and finds breathing a challenge.

“Farkas! Run to the plaza—Get Arcadia! Ask her for her personal stock of potions! Tell her the Dragonborn needs it!”

“What about the Temple?”

“It’s closed today! There’s a ceremony going outside the gates—Arcadia will be faster!” Rune snaps. Arms move to her wrist. The man grumbles under breath as he checks her pulse. It feels funny to think of a Dragonborn unrelated to her in any way caring so much. It isn’t only funny: it is confusing. He definitely has zero reason to care.

Minutes later, footsteps come rushing up stone steps. Vinci feels hands open her mouth. “—You owe me for this one, Dragonborn, and it is _very_ expensive—”

“Send the bill to Jorrvaskr!” Rune snaps. “Just—I don’t know— _Fix_ her!”

“It’s a potion of ultimate well-being. It _will_ fix her; be patient.” The shopkeeper huffs loudly. Cold liquid is poured down the Silver Hand’s throat. To her surprise, it isn’t a nasty concoction of chunks and gross ingredients. It is palatable, nigh-tasteless with a faint tang of metal to wash it down.

Vinci can feel it travel to her stomach. It warms her insides. She feels bones she was not aware of breaking starting to mend. She feels flesh mesh together and join anew. She feels warmth travel from her stomach to the tips of her toes. She can wiggle them: one, two, three, all the way to ten. Her fingers feel a cold stone floor beneath her. She feels Skyrim’s sun overhead. Her eyes open to the sight of multiple figures crowding around her, the tall bluff of the Skyforge directly in front of her. _It was all a… No. It wasn’t. Not all of it._

“Is Kodlak okay?” Rune looks to Farkas, the man by his far side with eyes locked on Vinci. “Farkas?”

“He’s good.” Farkas states quietly.

Vinci does not realize she stares for a long time.

“Okay. Everyone is alive. Good.” Rune exhales sharply. “Talk about an exciting day. C’mon, Vinci. Let’s get you up. Can you move everything okay?”

“What?” Vinci blurts out. She stares at the Dragonborn.

Rune pauses. “Your body.”

“I have another, but that will cost extra.” Arcadia clears her throat and watches Vinci.

“Did I push Kodlak off a cliff?” Vinci whispers.

Rune snorts. “No, but he fell on his face trying to rush down the stairs and check on you. Athis took him inside to sit down. Old guy’s got spirit.”

“If he wasn’t—He could not be Harbinger.” Farkas says.

She is stunned to be put back on her feet. When she looks down, she sees the smooth—but dirtied—skirt of her dress. It remains intact. Her legs are not bloody. Her bones are not broken. Her tooth is still there. She spins in a circle trying to make sure that her body actually _works,_ that she still breathes and lives. Vinci stops at the realization everyone stares at her. She backs away and looks at the ground. Rune pauses. “—How does your head feel?”

“Horrible.”

“Sounds about right for someone who fell, what? Twenty, thirty feet?” The Dragonborn snorts.

“Are you okay?” Farkas asks softly.

Her eyes water. She can’t say yes. She can’t lie to him. She knows Vinci is brave and courageous and strong, but Vinci is _dead_. She borrows the name. She draws from its strength in the struggle to keep _going_. Vinci shakes her head. She does not intend to, but when her body drifts to Farkas’s form and wraps arms around him, she buries her head in his chest and shuts her eyes. She needs an anchor, and Vilkas isn’t there; she knows he owes her nothing, but she wants him to be there. He is not. Farkas is. And, to her relief, she feels the man wrap arms around her and hug her back.

“I’m not okay.” She mumbles. “I’m not okay.”

“I know.” The man offers. He isn’t one for dozens of words, the brawn of the wolf twins. It suits him.

“Does Vilkas hate me?” The Silver Hand asks. She doesn’t count it out on her fingers, but she knows the number of days all the same. “—Nine days. I haven’t seen him.”

“He…” Farkas pauses.

Vinci draws back and looks up at him. He’s much taller than she is now. When they were kids, it took forever for the twins to hit any kind of growth spurt. Leilani towered over them for a long time. _But I’m not… Leilani._

 _I’m not. She’s dead._ Her eyes water.

The expression has some effect on Farkas. He frowns and puts hands on her shoulders. “—He needs time.”

“Time.” Vinci repeats.

“He’s… He has an obsession.” Farkas bites his lip.

“—Look—Werewolves got a fucking shitty thing where they _obsess_ over a person. I am not saying names,” Rune announces it _very_ loudly. He clears his throat and crosses his arms, all the while turning more and more to face Farkas. “—But—I know there is a person in the Companions who obsessed over me for a time. Something to do with me watching them take down a _hypothetical_ group of Silver Hands. Again. No names—But—”

“That was me.” Farkas shuts his eyes and sighs.

“—You said it, not me.” Rune frowns. He looks at Vinci. “—I don’t know how it works. But obsessions are dangerous things. Farkas bit me once. Still got the scar. That was a lucky encounter, too, because most obsessions are… They are hunted and killed. Unless they are werewolves. Then they… nevermind.” The man clears his throat. “That's all you need to know. Unless—Are you a werewolf?”

“I don’t think so,” Vinci frowns.

“…Right.” Rune does not sound convinced. The man eyes her carefully. “Try to think of it as… Vilkas is taking precautions to keep you safe.”

“By avoiding me.”

“Yes.” Farkas reluctantly agrees. He crosses his arms. “It makes it safer for you. He will not obsess over anyone else. Eventually… the obsession leaves. But it takes time.”

She pauses. Her eyes brighten a shade at the thought. Knowing it isn’t her that is putting Vilkas off… it matters. For a reason she cannot find words for, it matters to know Vilkas does not despise her. She wants him to enjoy her company. Perhaps it is one of the other strange ways she has grown since being taken from the compound: she has wants and desires. She has needs. She is not sure what they all are yet, but she knows some of them involves Vilkas. _Those_ ones make her heart beat a little faster than normal. _Those_ ones make her feel a little closer to alive.

“Question,” Rune interjects and waves a hand. The Dragonborn hesitates before he ups and blurts out the question. “Why did you throw yourself off a cliff?”

“Oh. I,” the woman looks to the side. She smooths down her dress. “I thought… I thought Kodlak said my name.”

“He did.” Farkas frowns. “Vinci. He said _Vinci._ ”

She becomes very aware of the eyes on her. It immediately fills her with nausea, a reminder of things she despises to think of. The woman inches backward. Farkas frowns as he watches her.

“…Right.” Vinci says softly. She turns away. “I’m Vinci.”


	10. (smut) he cares a lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the day after vilkas and vinci get back, the circle has a meeting. vilkas does not enjoy a second of it or the drama that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up folks  
> there's smut, there's drama, and it's about to get a loooooot messier  
> smut begins at:  
> "He might as well have told Ria to step on an ant."  
> to skip it c+f:  
> "There is no sweet afterglow."  
> (confetti noises)  
> (also this more or less covers what's happening on vilkas's end for the past 2 chapters)

The evening the two get back is a peaceful one. Vilkas finds that while his nerves are on edge, the mead hall’s jovial and merry atmosphere provides the outlet he needs to relax. It helps that Vinci is there, a soft-spoken shadow. She does not blurt out things like she did on the two’s trek around Whiterun Hold, but that is okay. The fact she did in the first-place counts for something; Vilkas holds back the smile that comes at the thought. _You trust me. You trust me. You trust me._ It is a thought on loop, spurred by the memory of how enthusiastic and happy she had been speaking about things he didn’t even know of.

 _Little bits of Aetherius pokin’ through the sky… at the Throat of the World._ It is a definite time-consumer and one dangerous climb, but Vilkas has confidence _he_ could do it. In time, so could Vinci. He tucks that thought away for the future.

As the evening carries on, Vilkas finds all other members of the Circle present in the mead hall. Jorrvaskr is a good home. It is tall, strong, and every bit demanding of respect and a love of mirth to go with the mead flowing in goblets and glasses. Vilkas himself drinks that night. He is happy to be back at his home, surrounded by Companions he cares for. He enjoys butting heads with Skjor, talking about a mammoth hunt planned for autumn, and filling in Farkas on the places he has been to and sights he has seen. He does note one of the whelps—though not truly a whelp, she’s been there longer than Rune has—gives him a cold look the duration of the evening. Ria is _pissed._ Rightly so; Vilkas feels a momentary ping of guilt over the realization he stood her up on training a week past.

But Vinci is there. Vinci is very distracting. Vilkas does not dwell too much on thoughts of whelp when a Silver Hand with green eyes and soft hands sits next to him. Throughout the evening, he finds she is relaxed. Her body posture is not tense, her eyes do not fidget and scan the mead hall exits as frequently as they could, and she even engages in small conversation with Ria. The same Ria who is pissed at him, ironically.

It soothes Vilkas’s soul to see Vinci happy. He hopes she knows that. His thoughts return to her frequently enough as is; he can’t help but look her way in hopes of stealing a glance. He touches her hand on some occasions and feels a thrill inside when her hand curls against his. When he isn’t occupied with batting around insults with Aela or offering cool retorts to Skjor’s suggestive comments, Vilkas finds himself wondering what else he could do to help Vinci. He wants to guard her, yes, _protect_ her, but he wants to do more. She was once a child of darkness; her circumstances hindered her and she needs a bit of help getting back on her feet.

Maybe that help is training her. He plans to do that, once he sorts out Ria and the Circle’s impending questions. But it could be other things. He wonders, briefly, if she might be the kind of individual who finds security in physical touches. He knows hugs— _his_ hugs—make her feel safe.

 _I could offer to do that more. If… Other things help… Then…_ His pale brown eyes flicker to Vinci’s face. The woman is occupied by the craftsmanship of an especially-questionably-shaped goblet. Vilkas pauses. “It was a gift from Adrienne.”

“The smith at the Warmaiden’s?” Vinci looks at him. He enjoys the curiosity in her eyes, a welcome change from the blank and empty and teary looks he has found before. The woman is stronger than she knows; she is capable of healing. He believes that with every ounce of spirit he has in him. When Vinci tilts her head, Vilkas fights the pull to lean over and find out how soft her lips really are, to see if that is something that helps her, too.

“She was drunk when she made it.” Vilkas states. He averts his gaze but the thought dances in his head. _What if it does help? What if it helps more than a hug? What if it makes her feel safer?_

He is adamant his thoughts are not becoming obsessive. He saw what an obsession was, back when the Silver Hand nearly killed Farkas and Rune in an ambush while the two were off fucking around and looking for a fragment of Ysmir’s legendary weapon, the _Wuuthrad_. The weeks after that showed how dangerous an obsession could be. Vilkas had experienced a lot with his brother, but he never anticipated how Farkas could become so thoroughly obsessed with the life of another. He had briefly considered taking the man aside, and part of him regrets he never did, because his brother’s thoughts came to a peak a night when the Dragonborn was leaving Whiterun alone. The man had transformed and stalked Rune to Helgen’s ruined gate before attacking him.

 _Rune was lucky,_ Vilkas acknowledges. The memories leave a bitter taste in his mouth. _He had the Voice. He could subdue Farkas without killing him. He had the experience of a warrior to defend himself. But Vinci…_

By Mara and all other Divines, he is not obsessed with her. He admits the two-week endeavor was a mistake on his end, if only because his lack of communication with the rest of the Companions, but Vilkas knows his thoughts are not so pervasive and circling around the woman. He is doing his job, the one asked of him by the Harbinger, and that entails keeping an eye out for Vinci and making her open up to him. Farkas and Rune were different; Farkas had to be physically restrained from attempting to hunt down the Dragonborn for _weeks._ Vilkas knows how bad his brother felt when the obsession finally ceased; Farkas had to be talked out of quitting the Companions and leaving Whiterun. It took a month for him to willingly enter a room Rune was in.

 _Vinci goes where she wants to._ Vilkas exhales softly. He finds his hand bumps against the woman’s. He feels his stomach twist in delight and anxiety when she does not push him away. _Vinci could be in another city and I would be okay. As long as I know she is protected. As long as she’s safe. I’m not obsessive, I just…_ He finds heat creeps unto his face of his own accord. He is a tough man and a stern teacher but the subject that throws him for a loop the most is attempting to navigate strange and new feelings. Vinci tends to provoke lots and lots of unfamiliar emotions inside him. Vilkas glances at the two’s hands. Even the briefest touch gives him warmth. _I care about her. She matters to me._

He is not obsessing over her, because when she excuses herself for the evening, he gives her an awkward _good night_ and watches her descend the staircase to the living quarters below Jorrvaskr. He does not follow, even if part of him wants to make sure she is safe and secure where she rests. He _knows_ she is safe in Jorrvaskr’s walls. Vilkas leans back against his seat and reaches for a new goblet of mead. He drinks it down swiftly and breathes. _If I was obsessing, I wouldn’t want her out of my sight. I can think about other things. This is just… This is me. Caring. About Vinci being safe. Feeling safe. Being happy._

He cares a lot.

What he does not care for is the events of the following morning. No sooner than Vilkas is up and grabbing a bite to eat in the mead hall, does the Companion’s notorious huntress flop into a chair next to him. Aela’s eyes are full of grief waiting to unfold; the ginger-haired woman tilts her head to one side and crosses her arms. She chucks her feet on the table and stares until Vilkas pauses mid-bite and looks at her. “What?”

“—The Circle is meeting. Underforge. Farkas will drag you by the ears if you ain’t.” Aela states curtly. The woman reaches over and swipes a slab of salmon from the man’s plate before she gets up.

 _‘Course it wouldn’t be that easy._ He is not getting off the hook for the past two weeks. Vilkas does not look forward to it. He is grumpy from the moment he meets the Circle, minus Kodlak, at the base of the Skyforge’s bluff. Skjor presses three slabs into place and a click is heard before a grandiose slab of stone slides to the side, revealing a dank and dark entrance to the _Underforge._ It is a small cavern beneath the Skyforge where the Circle can find privacy. It is also where Vilkas finds Farkas’s disgruntled stare among the leers of the other two Circle members. He grimaces when the stone door concealing the Underforge slides back into place. A torch is lit by Aela.

“Where in Oblivion have you been?” The woman snaps. “Vilkas!”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Whiterun Hold. Never far.”

“Save it, Aela. I need to speak.” Skjor clears his throat. He is an older man, bypassing the rest of the Circle by two decades, and it shows in old, faded scars and wrinkles. He purses his lips and waits for peace and silence before continuing. “—Gallows Rock. Silver Hand.”

“You haven’t gone yet?” Vilkas grunts. “Coulda been there n’ back by now.”

“ _Quiet._ ” Skjor sighs. He rubs the back of his head. “Look, I ain’t wanting to move on such a dangerous hunt without makin’ sure we got numbers. Silver Hand’s a thorn in our side. It’s a big encampment, Gallows Rock. Can’t be takin’ just no one in there. Which is why—” The man pauses and looks around the chamber. “—I'm gonna ask Rune to join us.”

“He isn’t a member of the Circle.” Aela frowns. “This a good idea?”

“Would I ask if it ain’t?” Skjor snorts. “He is Dragonborn.”

“—But not a werewolf.” Vilkas pauses. “He’s been imprisoned once. Skjor. You think he can handle it?”

“He can.” It is Farkas who speaks up. Vilkas glances at his brother, who does not meet his eye. “He’s... strong.”

“Good, good. Glad we agree on that.” Skjor huffs and nods at his own words.

“I already swore to make the Silver Hand pay for mistreating the whelp. My bow and arrows are yours, Shield-Brother.” Aela says.

“Brings us to you both. Farkas. You considerin’ it still?”

“—If Rune goes—I intend to go.” His brother grunts.

“Look who’s _soft_ on the whelp.” Aela breaks a half-grin. The woman’s smile becomes a smirk at Farkas’s glare.

Vilkas can’t help snorting. “Better not be tryin’ to obsess a second time, Farkas. Dragonborn will knock you flat—"

“Only one obsessing is you, brother,” Farkas cuts him off. “Speaking of.”

“Ah, the other topic of discussion.” Skjor pauses. “Our Silver Hand.”

Vilkas groans. He should not have stepped into the Underforge. Until Skjor decides to let him out, he is stuck in the cavern with three werewolves who got sticks up their asses. The man knew he would be in for a chewing back in the mead hall, but part of him hoped the Circle would go easy. _Why didn’t Vinci and I stay out more? She’s good company. Talks a lot about the sky. Stars. Rivers. I could be trying to show her how to hunt mudcrabs…_

“I know I mucked ‘round without a word. Two weeks. I get it—” Vilkas begins, but Aela’s growl shuts him up. He sighs.

“You got responsibilities to the whelps!” The woman snaps. “You left our Shield-Sister ‘n buggered off with a Silver Hand! That isn’t the way of us Companions, Vilkas. You want to hand duties of Master At Arms to Farkas? He shows up for the whelps.”

Vilkas wants to open his mouth, but Aela’s on a tangent. Not even Skjor steps in when the huntress strides to Vilkas and continues.

“—Ria and Rune, Torvar, all of them rely on the Circle to have us Companions wrangled. What happens when one of us goes off the trail? What happens if we don’t have Shield-Siblings at our back? We about sent a search party out.” The woman grits her teeth. She is a fierce warrior, respected and feared in equal amounts. Vilkas feels uneasy though he stands several inches over her. Aela narrows her eyes. “What if Silver Hand tried something, Vilkas?”

 _“She wouldn’t.”_ Vilkas snaps. He can take a lashing, but he isn’t going to let the Circle step over someone who isn’t there to defend herself.

“She’s a Silver Hand.” Skjor cuts in. “She is a Silver Hand who’s got a grip on you. Real tight. You wouldn’t know she cut ya throat ‘til you fell over dead.”

“She was a prisoner. Same as Rune. She’s got problems of her own but that doesn’t make her like the rest of those bastards.” Vilkas shuts his eyes. “Besides! Harbinger asked me to play sitter. Complain to Kodlak.”

“—Vilkas.” Farkas waits to speak until the man obliges in glaring at him. “You started acting different after you and the whelp got back with her.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He snaps. “She’s—You know where she’s from. _Oblivion!_ She’s one of us.”

“I know.” Farkas looks to the side. “That was twenty years ago, Vilkas. People change.”

 _“You_ thought she was _Leilani!”_ Vilkas’s hands clench into fists. 

The name provokes his brother to growl. “I _want_ her to be Leilani. You want her to be Leilani! But she… isn’t,” the man hesitates. Farkas’s eyes dim. “Wrong. I was wrong. I get that—”

“Is that why you’re telling me this? You said it didn’t matter, Farkas! She’s one of us, what does that mean to you? Nothing?” Vilkas exhales slowly. “You wait _two weeks_ and it doesn’t matter? What we _survived_ means shit now?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth!”

“You’re the one accusing me of _obsessing_ over the _damn woman!”_ Vilkas snarls. “Harbinger asked me to _babysit_! I’m doing what he asked! She’s a Silver Hand. She’s suspicious. I need her to _trust me._ ”

His brother’s eyes darken. “Then why didn’t you take a Shield-Sibling?”

“Because she doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t trust Rune. She trusts _me._ ” Vilkas seethes.

“Does she?” Aela intervenes between the two. The huntress holds up her hands to keep both brothers at bay, separate and from a potential fist-fight. “I’m asking out of concern, Vilkas. Does she trust you? Or do you want to believe she does?”

“She does,” Vilkas barks. “I make her feel _safe!_ ”

“You carried her out of the compound. ‘Course she feels safer with you, Shield-Brother. She has no connection to anyone else here, save your brother.” Skjor pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. The man glances around the room. “You see our side, don’t you? Disappearing for two weeks with a Silver Hand. Not a Shield Sibling to be seen. If this Silver Hand ain’t share a past, would you done it?” At Vilkas’s silence, Skjor grunts. “Thought not. You know it ain’t like you to be so reckless.”

“We speak out of _concern_ for you, Vilkas. You’re going out of line, shirking duties n’ taking risks you wouldn’t normally. This isn’t you.” Aela pauses.

Vilkas’s gaze darkens. He despises how it is three against one, far from a fair fight and something closer to what the Thieves Guild might try to pull. The Companion grits his teeth. “She isn’t like other Silver Hands. That’s behind her. You lot are running in circles worrying where there isn’t a problem!”

“You made a promise to protect her. You swore to keep her safe.” Farkas recounts the words Vilkas said before he and Farkas split ways fifteen days prior.

“Just like I intend to protect you,” Vilkas says curtly. “She survived. We survived. It _isn’t_ happening again. Not while I live and breathe with a blade in my hand.”

“Vilkas.” Skjor takes over the conversation. The man approaches Vilkas with slow, careful steps.

 _He is being cautious,_ Vilkas acknowledges. The Circle really believes he has developed an obsession. They think he is a danger to others. Vilkas grits his teeth. _“Skjor.”_

“A promise like that is binding, Shield-Brother.” Skjor says firmly. “What will you do if she is the Silver Hand we fear? What if she picks a blade to cut us down?”

“…Then I will fight.” Vilkas frowns. “For my Shield-Siblings. The Companions.”

“Could you kill her, Vilkas?” Skjor squints. The man is astute. His good eye tracks Vilkas’s face, seeking out any hint of hesitation.

Vilkas growls. “I could.”

“Then tell me. Swear to it, Shield-Brother. If Leilani points a blade at you—you will put her down.” Skjor stares.

“I…”

The hesitation is there. It’s enough for Vilkas to cuss out the entire chamber. The other three members of the Circle fall quiet until the man is done.

Skjor grunts. “You can’t, can you?”

“I can’t kill her.” Vilkas confesses softly.

“Your point of obsession ain’t she is a Silver Hand. Nor that she comes from a pit of Oblivion like you and Farkas here. You think of the woman as someone of the past. Someone who isn’t here anymore.” Skjor puts his hands on Vilkas’s shoulders. He cannot look Skjor in the face, though he knows the man watches him. “You’re obsessing over a person named Leilani. You think of this Silver Hand as her.”

“I do not—”

“Then why didn’t you rebuke my words, Vilkas?” The other Circle member growls and tightens his grip. “You didn’t deny it when I called her Leilani! And you know good n’ well I don’t think two shits about her like you do!”

Vilkas’s light brown eyes widen. “You called her Vinci.”

“He called her Leilani.” Farkas shuts his eyes. “Vilkas.”

“He called her Vinci!” Vilkas can feel the bile rise at the back of his throat. He is not obsessing. He is not in denial. He knows what he thinks, believes, and feels. He knows what he _heard_. “Skjor!”

“You think of that woman as Leilani. Part of your brain believes it. That’s your obsession, Vilkas.” Skjor releases him and steps back.

Vilkas grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut. He says nothing. He cannot say anything, because there is nothing to say. His hands tremble but he shoves the feelings under a hard carapace, a layer of stubbornness befitting the man. “—I—I am _done_ discussing this—I will make amends with Ria—But I am _finished_ with the topic! _With all of you!”_

“You are not.” Aela cuts in. She ignores his seething glare that follows. The huntress grimaces. “You have an obsession. It needs to be curtailed. We know the Harbinger asked something of you. But that time is done. You do _not_ approach the Silver Hand again. Not until we know you won’t run off and rip out her throat.”

“Vilkas,” Skjor states the name slowly. “If you speak truth—If you have no obsession—There ain’t harm in the precautions. You are taking steps necessary to keep this woman safe. It is… temporary. You want her safe.”

He grits his teeth. He wants to howl and scream as badly as his wolf does inside him. The man knows that won’t went well. The three have a point. It is better to be cautious than to assume nothing will ever go astray. Vilkas turns away and hisses. “—Let me _out.”_

He would prefer not to see or talk to any of the lot for a week, maybe two, but Rune’s ensuing interruption causes trouble. The Dragonborn’s claim to have seen _magic_ on Vinci alarms him. It is almost enough to make him step out of line, go against his Shield-Siblings wishes, and make sure she is safe. He needs her safe. He wants her to be safe. But their accusations—and the seed of truth in them—have worn on him. Vilkas will not risk putting Vinci in harms way. Nor will he risk the thoughts he wants to avoid, the truth that rags on him, to spiral deeper and deeper out of his control.

He sees the Silver Hand as Leilani. By the _Divines_ , Vilkas _wants_ her to be Leilani. He believes it is possible even with Farkas’s insistence on error. But it is a dangerous thought. It is a thought that can lead to obsession, and that could harm her. He won’t have that; if the thought will not leave of its own volition, Vilkas intends to shove it out through brute force. He sees the opportunity in Ria, a day later when she finally accepts his apology and agrees to speak to him again. The Imperial woman is a stout and tall figure with dark, _dark_ hair pulled into a bun.

“You want to make it up to me?” Ria snaps. “Take me on a hunt. A cave bear hunt. In the Pale.”

“…That is far.” Vilkas sighs. He agreed to make it up—and make it up he will. The man crosses his arms. “It may not be the Pale.”

“—Fine, _fine._ …As long as it is a _cave bear,_ ” the Companion huffs and puts a hand on her hip. Her fur armor is snug and warm, perhaps a bit too warm under Skyrim’s summer sky. “You have to gut it, skin it, clean it, and carry it, too.”

Vilkas grimaces. He is being pushed to do all the work, and he knows Ria enjoys every second of it. The man reluctantly agrees. “We go by foot.”

“Let’s leave now.” Ria states. The woman’s eyes become bright. She tilts her head to the side. “I happen to be packed.”

“I’m not.” Vilkas crosses his arms.

“That’s okay.” The woman snorts. “My friend, Farkas took it upon himself to pack for you. Owe your brother one for that, huh?”

“I’ll thank him later.” Vilkas states dryly. He knows Ria is not to blame, and he takes care to calm himself by the time the two hit the road. He _is_ the one who wronged her, and he intends to make it up to the woman however he can. As the duo walk farther and farther from Whiterun’s grand walls, Vilkas glances back at the town's gate. He sees a woman with long black hair waving at him and Ria. She is too far away for him to tell, but Vilkas imagines Vinci’s soft green eyes anyways. For a moment he considers waving back.

 _“Elk!”_ Ria calls ahead, already ten paces ahead of him.

Vilkas snaps his attention back to the other Companion. He grits his teeth and keeps on walking. _Caring is not an obsession._

He and Ria do not find a cave bear for several days. Most of them are north, and Vilkas hesitates on venturing too far north regardless how much Ria pushes him to walk faster and go farther than before. She is good at assessing his feelings. When Vilkas is too short, Ria tapers off her comments. When Vilkas is too distracted by thoughts of the past, Ria pipes up and interrupts his musings. Though the woman has a silver-tongue and occasional temper, she can navigate pitfalls another Companion might walk Vilkas into. He appreciates that about her. Her words slowly but surely erode the agitation initially churned by the conversation with the Circle, until Vilkas feels like himself again.

The Companions find a massive cave structure three days west of Whiterun. The western hold territory is treacherous to navigate by foot, coming close to intercepting with the Reach where stories of stolen land and turmoil linger. Vilkas opts to stake out the first cave he finds. The man is a keen tracker and though he can smell a bear inside, he takes several minutes pointing out the shape of bear tracks of Ria and explaining how to tell the species apart from its kin.

“Their eastern cousins have one less pad on their feet. Less indentations, same claws. If you find more claws, that’s a bear from the north. You don’t fight those.” The man crosses his arms and waits patiently for his Companion to finish peering at the tracks.

“—Can’t that be said for most creatures? Unless you’re a Companion —You don’t fight them. But we’re Companions, Vilkas.” Ria straightens upright and offers him a smile that is a little too smug for a whelp. The woman has a lot left to learn about Skyrim.

The man shrugs. “…This is life. Living, breathing creatures. Some you don’t fight. Even with a Shield-Sibling. Not everything resolves with violence.”

“I think you need to repeat that to the other Companions.” Ria coughs.

Vilkas snorts. “Add it to the list.”

The cave itself is a wide, open-mouthed monstrosity burrowing into a large cliff face. Vilkas makes a point to light a torch and passes it off to Ria. He leaves his heavier pack at the cave entrance behind a set of stalagmites, then makes to venture further. Ria’s voice and footsteps indicates she follows him, though the woman is not as quiet as he wants her to be. “—Question for you.”

Vilkas grunts softly to acknowledge her words.

“How do you know when to draw a blade?” The woman’s voice finally drops in volume. She eyes him eagerly for an answer. “Vilkas.”

“—Practice, mainly.” The torch flickers as the two continue forward, a team in the dank darkness.

Part of the werewolf worries about the extent of the darkness. If the den and _bear_ is too deep in the cave, the duo will have to turn back. _All that walking for nothing… No. We came here for a bear. We are leaving here with a damn bear.  
_

He does not want to admit part of him feels uncomfortable with the darkness. It is almost a reminder, a precipice his mind manages to pull back from lest the memories return.

Though the man intends to stay focused—great sword now unsheathed and kept low to guard in event the bear finds them first—he is torn from his concentration by his Companion stopping in her steps. He frowns and looks back, unwilling to venture further without her torch light. The woman looks guilty. It takes Vilkas by surprise; his brows rise in confusion and he stares. “Shield-Sister?”

“Can you call me Ria for this?” The woman frowns.

“Ria, then.” Vilkas nods.

“I know the Companions are a family-in-arms, a group of fierce warriors! Who respect and look out for one another—But I don’t want _you_ to call me _sister_.” Ria grunts and averts her gaze. “I know it ain’t the way Companions do things. We _are_ siblings-in-arms. But that’s a label. A term. Something that doesn’t sit right with me and _you._ ”

“You don’t have to justify it, Ria.” Vilkas states and turns forward. His great sword feels heavy in his hands.

He hears the woman start moving again, and Vilkas makes to continue, but he stops at the hand on his shoulder. He turns to Ria but frowns after Ria passes the torch to him. The man is about to say something, to point out he _can’t_ use his great sword effectively with one hand, when the woman’s arms wrap around his torso. Vilkas freezes. The sensation is not something he is used to; his instinct is to shove a person away regardless of who they are, Vinci or Ria or otherwise. He doesn’t; the man stares with confusion. Ria buries her face in his chest and inhales deeply. “—You made me so damn worried, y’know. _Two weeks._ Farkas wouldn’t let me take a horse and find you.”

Guilt begins to crawl up the man’s spine. Vilkas’s eyes dim. “I’m sorry, Ria.”

“I know you and I give each other _shit_ in training all the time,” the woman goes on, muffled but audible against his chest plate. “—But I still _care_ about you! Lots of us do. Even Njada. You mean a lot, you fucking bastard. Especially to me.”

There is a soft hint to the words. It makes Vilkas tense. He is not very good at figuring out feelings, but he can decipher some. He understands part of what the woman means. She cares about him, just as he cares about Farkas and Aela and Kodlak and all the Companions and Vinci. _Cares._ It is a meaningful gesture; the man exhales sharply. “—You… mean a lot to me too. Ria.”

“I do?” The woman sounds surprised. Her eyes drift up. She draws her head back and peers at him. “I thought—"

“Why wouldn’t you?” Vilkas frowns.

“Because…you’ve spent a lot of time with that woman!” Ria sighs. She shakes her head. “I thought… I thought you _wanted_ her. I thought that’s why—You were gone so long. You and her…” The woman trails off, and it dawns on Vilkas he has been completely off on understanding what words and feelings mean. Ria does not care about him the same way he cares about so many people. Ria cares about him in a way that is more intimate than that, in a way that sparks memories of occasional flings without clothes with random bar patrons.

His face explodes with heat. Vilkas swallows. “We didn’t. We… Talked. A lot.”

Divines, he had had some thoughts about Vinci, thoughts that were very open-ended and could go a dozen different ways, but he always put a cap on them before they got too out of control. Suddenly having it thrust into his mind, ideas about what the black-haired woman looks like beneath him, hair a mess and _his_ name on her lips—Vilkas grits his teeth and shoves the thought away. It is having a physical effect on him. There is a _bear_ somewhere in a cave and he cannot afford to get distracted by thoughts of what Vinci’s voice could sound like calling his name, urging him on, whispering all the things she wants him to do… 

“You should talk with me. I can talk for hours, Vilkas. Talk on my knees… On all fours… Sometimes from behind.” Ria’s voice interrupts the mess inside Vilkas’s mind. There is a blatant need in the woman’s eyes, one desperate and adoring.

“—The Bear—” Vilkas breathes. “Talk—After.”

He might as well have told Ria to step on an ant. No sooner than the poor animal is found and dispatched does the woman jump him. The torch is dropped in the mess; though it goes out there is an abundance of glowing mushrooms lighting up the cave walls. Vilkas cannot think with the woman’s lips crushing his own. Ria is a needy woman, hungry for his touch, and after months of no contact, he finds his mind cannot hold back. He reciprocates every kiss she offers, every touch she invokes, and when she starts stripping him of armor he can’t help but shut his eyes and sigh in bliss. His fellow Companion knows exactly what she’s doing to him; her fingers are powerful and she peels and unclasps him to the thin layer of clothes underneath. She doesn’t remove her own armor before pulling the waistband of his pants down and taking him in her mouth.

“By Mara—” Vilkas exhales sharply. Ria’s lips are better than Aetherius itself. She is warm around him and he feels engulfed in her. When she starts to bob her head and suck on the tip, Vilkas begins to pant. His wolf inside growls with a growing need to take control, but he doesn’t dare do anything that might make the woman stop. He craves physical touch, spurred by Ria’s words and desperate desire of his body.

Her hands massage his shaft. She can’t take all of him in her mouth but she knows how to work around that. As her tongue swirls around his tip, Vilkas feels a spring begin to coil in his abdomen. His hips begin to thrust, weakly moving against Ria’s magic fingers and decadent mouth. When he looks down, he groans and whimpers at the eye contact she offers. She is the one in control; she has him an aroused mess against a cave wall and Vilkas loves every second of it. He cannot hold out forever; the man finds he grabs her head and howls when he comes. Ria lets him empty in her mouth, though she spits it out after.

Vilkas pants. He stares at the Companion as she gives him a cocky smile and begins to undo her own armor. The man swallows and watches Ria shed each piece shielding her body. She has a beautiful figure. There are scars along the twenty-nine-year-old woman’s torso, but most are faded. Her breasts are supple and inviting. The curve of her toned form brings the blood back into his groin. When she walks to him and starts lowering herself over him, he throws his head back and whines. Everything is sensitive and he cannot stop the groans that fall from his lips. He is not used to the stimulation, the closeness, the proximity. It’s been too long and Vilkas does not know how he ever went so long without the contact. He hisses when Ria starts riding him. The woman’s pants are short and loud; he makes to taste each inch of flesh across her torso with his tongue. His hands go to her hips and he takes hold of the pace, pulling her off only to push her hips back into his.

“ _Vilkas,”_ The woman’s growing pants are a good sign. Vilkas finds his confidence growing when Ria rests her head against his and whispers his name. The man growls and crams his lips against hers. She exhales and lets him take control. The two become a mess of smacking skin on the floor of the cave until it becomes too much and Vilkas finds himself keeling over the woman’s body. His senses overload from the stimulation against his body.

He pulls Ria into his arms and holds her against him with a sharp cry of, _“—Vinci—!"_

There is no sweet afterglow. The smell of sex hangs with the smell of dead bear. Ria does not look at him once when cleaning up or getting dressed. He cannot muster the courage to look at her, either, both out of shame at what occurred and the forced realization over it. Though Ria asked him before the trek to take care of the bear, the two Companions leave it behind. The animal is a waste, the trip is a waste, and Vilkas knows things are far from being salvageable. Ria does not speak a word to him until the two are gathering their packs and hiking back to the road. The woman does not openly cry, but he knows she _wants_ to. He has seen that look before.

“—I think I might hate you.” Ria says. She grits her teeth. “I don’t hate anyone easily _, Companion.”_

She is not using his name. He does not correct her. If he were in her shoes, he would have already tried knocking himself out with a punch or two. Ria has the strength to do it. She is far from weak and more than capable of knocking kneecaps and breaking noises. Vilkas’s pale brown eyes darken as he glances at the sky. “You would be right to.”

“Why would you say those things—If you just—” Ria grits her teeth. She wipes her eyes and marches faster, but continues shouting as she goes. “—If you just—Planned—On fucking me up like that _anyways?_ ”

“—It wasn’t planned,” Is all Vilkas can offer. The werewolf sighs. “I can’t give you an excuse.”

“No—No you _can’t._ ” Ria barks at him. Her fists clench and she spins on her heels, glare as sharp as either the two’s swords. “I’ve been—Waiting—Hoping—For _months_ —You fucking bastard! Hoping—Maybe—We had something! Fucking Ria, always asking too much, huh? Not even a fucking moment for myself, for _me!_ It’s always someone. It’s always…” The woman trails off and wipes her eyes. She exhales sharply. “Nevermind.”

The man pauses. He has done nothing but make a situation worse, but he is genuinely concerned for the woman. He still cares for her, even if he does not care for her the way she wants him to. “…Ria…”

“Don’t _Ria_ me. Don’t do it, you _fucking-Oblivion-shit-head._ ” Ria grabs her dark hair and screeches for a long moment. She exhales and lets her shoulders slump after. “Divines. No. Don’t say my name. Just—Go back to calling me _Shield-Sister._ I don’t want to hear _shit_ from you. Not my name. Never again, you hear me?”

His gaze dims. “Alright.”

“Men in Skyrim are fucking worthless!” The woman carries on even after the two start moving again. Vilkas does not interrupt her; he lets her rant and rave as much as she needs. “You all say the same thing! Always leading on a lady! I should’ve stayed in Cyrodiil—I could’ve had a nice fancy home, a goddamn _mansion_ , but no! I tried so hard to be the fucking woman who could handle it on her own. Left my home, my family, all I knew, just for _this_ shit. For all this to happen again and again and just…” Ria wipes her eyes. She hiccups. “I mean—Is it _me?_ Am I the reason men keep fucking me up? I don’t—I don’t think I ask for much. I just… I don’t want to be someone’s _second choice.”_

By the time she speaks again, evening is upon the two. Vilkas takes care of setting up a camp while Ria sulks to the side. Though the werewolf fixes dinner, Ria does not eat. She makes a point to sleep facing away from Vilkas’s bed roll.

“You get first watch.” The woman says quietly.

Vilkas does not argue. The man sits near the fire and holds his head in his hands. An hour in, with his mind still a mess of _everything_ that took place from start-to-end of the trip, the werewolf finally utters, _“—gods damnit,_ Vilkas.”


	11. shoveling coal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci intends to learn how to smith, one way or another. if only the process was faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happiness and drama  
> but mostly happiness  
> in comparison to some chapters this feels relatively tame

She wants to smith.

The Warmaiden's is a shop plopped next to the main gate of Whiterun. It lays in the lowest-level District of the town, the Plains district, where many other residential buildings linger. Directly across from it is a guard barracks on one side of a forked road. Between the road forks is a set of steps leading to an old hunting shop-and-pub called the Drunken Huntsman. Though Vinci holds curiosity over the tavern’s interior, she refrains. She is a woman with a goal and that lays in the Warmaiden’s beautiful owner and blacksmith, a lady by the name of Adrienne Avenicci.

When she looked at Warmaiden's in the past, the Imperial owner assisted her in trying out different weapons. She had intended to save the visit for when Vilkas could go with her; it was Rune who accompanied her that day. The Dragonborn turned out to be more a help than hindrance. He navigated introductions between Adrienne and Vinci with ease. Returning to the woman alone and without Dragonborn _or_ Vilkas is a lot less scary than it could be. Vinci walks the road through Whiterun’s districts with a set of yellow robes akin to the same attire worn by followers of Kynareth.

It is chillier than usual. The sky is overcast; she recalls seeing trees beyond the town walls starting to lose leaves, but her time in the Silver Hand’s cells blocks any knowledge she once had of season shifts in Skyrim. The woman does not overthink it. She approaches Adrienne while the Imperial woman is busy at a grindstone. Vinci waits until the woman is done and rising to her feet with a sharp steel blade in hand before saying anything.

“—Adrienne?” She feels sorely out of place, in priest robes next to the blacksmith’s stained apron and long dress. Vinci stiffens when Adrienne grunts in acknowledgement. She takes it as a sign to go on. “—I don’t know if you remember me, but—"

“—I remember.” The Imperial woman moves to a workbench and lays the steel blade flat from one end to another. “You’re the Dragonborn’s friend.”

 _Friend._ Vinci does not correct her, though she does not know if the words are true. Friend is an endearing term. She regards Rune as a legendary hero, but to what extent is another question. Rune is kind, but a Companion. Funny, but a Companion. Many things—But a _Companion._

She is not a Companion.

“Speak up. I don’t have all day; my orders are full for the next three nights.” Adrienne addresses her, polite but firm.

“The Warmaiden’s.” Vinci feels the urge to back off and drop the conversation altogether. It is a difficult urge to fight off; she clenches her eyes shut and swallows her nerves. “Are you taking an apprentice?”

Adrienne’s pause gives her a brief flicker of hope. Then the woman grunts. “—No.”

“Oh.” Vinci frowns. Her green eyes dim. “Alright.”

“Why you ask? Don’t know how to smith? Any traveler worth their while should know the basics of making weapons and armor. Come to think of it—I haven’t seen you wear any. Use any.” Vinci meets Adrienne’s gaze while the latter ponders something. “…Do you own any armor? Weapons?”

“Not anymore.” Vinci tucks a strand of her behind an ear. The woman exhales. “It’s a long story.”

“Well. If you want to get anywhere, honesty is imperative,” Adrienne plucks a hammer from her apron pocket and raises it over the blade. “If you got nothing to say then our conversation is through. I have weapons to craft. Orders to finish.”

Vinci throws her hands out between the hammer’s path and the blade. Adrienne freezes in time to catch it before it smashes her hand. Adrienne grabs the woman by the collar of her robes and pushes Vinci away with a hiss. The latter throws her hands up and mumbles an apology, but Adrienne is pissed. The blacksmith’s eyes seethe with anger.

“—What in _Oblivion_ are you trying to pull?” The Imperial snaps.

“I don’t own _anything,_ ” Vinci repeats. She exhales in relief when Adrienne releases her and steps back. The Silver Hand looks to the side. “I don’t own anything. I don’t have… weapons. Armor. Anything. _Anything._ ”

“I find it hard to believe,” Adrienne grunts. “You’re in with the Companions and Dragonborn—You think anybody just ups and joins them?”

“I’m not a Companion. I’m a prisoner.” Vinci thinks back to Kodlak, to all the things the elder has said, and to all the ways she despises him. He is manipulative. She does not like his ability to pull strings and string truth from nothing. The thirty-five-year-old woman exhales sharply. “—I was a prisoner of the Silver Hand for ten years. Then I became a prisoner of the Companions. I am not… I don’t own any of this. Sometimes people lend me stuff, but it isn’t mine.”

The blacksmith holds disbelief in her eyes. “A hard story to buy. You don’t look like a prisoner.”

“If you asked the Harbinger—He will tell you I’m not. But it doesn’t feel that way.” Vinci wraps her arms around herself and looks to the side. “…I don’t have money or supplies for smithing. But I think I know how to do it. If you… were hiring.”

“This isn’t a charity. It is a shop. An armory, specifically. I got orders to fill all day. There isn’t time to teach people how to run a smithy.” Adrienne returns to her workbench.

“I can do it.” Vinci tries to speak up louder, straighten up her head’s awkward angle, and look more composed. She is nervous. She does not have the bite of a woman ten years ago, but she isn’t dead yet. She wants to _try._

“Here is what I’ll have you do.” Adrienne begins curtly, not a single look offered from the woman as she lifts her hammer. “You start with running finished jobs to the people that paid for ‘em. When you aren’t running, you smelt ores, keep the forge fed with fuel, and clean the grindstone and workbench. Be here at the crack of dawn, work until sunset. You get paid a gold a day. It’s all _I_ can afford, no if’s, and’s, or but’s. You do that enough,” the Imperial pauses. “—I’ll consider letting you practice with the forge itself.”

Vinci’s eyes widen. Her smile must be annoyingly obvious, because Adrienne grimaces and waves her off. Though the woman thanks her at least a dozen times, Adrienne offers nothing more. Vinci enjoys the stroll back to Jorrvaskr. She enjoys seeing the Gildergreen, hearing the clang of Eorlund’s smithing at the Skyforge, and greeting Tilma when the old woman waves from across the mead hall. That evening—and she sleeps early, knowing the busy days to come—Vinci can’t help but curl up under fur blankets in the whelp’s hall with a ping of excitement in her chest. She feels almost the same she did when Vilkas first agreed to train her. _He’ll be so surprised. I got a job._ _If I do well… maybe I can work my way up. Work my way to actual smithing. I need steel and silver. And… leather? I need to ask Adrienne what goes in a longsword. When I’ve proven my use to her, that is. I can be useful. I will be useful. I’ll show everyone that._

That night no dreams come.

It is grueling work. Adrienne wasn’t kidding when she said to be present at the _crack_ of dawn. Tilma is kind enough to stir the sleepy woman and bring her a small breakfast after she is dressed.

“I can’t thank you enough. For this. Your help.” Vinci says quietly between bites of bread rolls caked in unsalted butter.

Tilma smiles. She is an old woman with a story Vinci has never heard, but the woman is certain Tilma has lived a long life full of exciting endeavors. “You do your best.”

“I will.” Vinci nods.

Carrying and lugging armor and weapons across the expanse of Whiterun is tedious in of itself, but Vinci does not dare complain. She makes do with what Adrienne asks of her, though her steps are sluggish on more than one run up and down different Districts. Adrienne is truly _popular_ as a smith, second only to the Gray-Mane manning the Skyforge, and she never ceases to run out of orders for Vinci to deliver throughout the first day. The second day is likewise, with only a smidgen of orders slowing come evening hours. The third day is different: at noontime, when Vinci is given a break to chug down water and _breathe_ , Adrienne interrupts her and calls her to a great furnace. The woman hands her a shovel.

Vinci stares. “What do I do?”

“You shovel.” Adrienne barks and waves her on.

She spends an hour feeding the forge. It is not silver like the Skyforge. It is far from it, as lacking as any other non-living _thing_ is in her silver gaze. But it is warm. It provides heat against a cloudy sky. Vinci finds her arms are sore for the duration of the day’s deliveries, but not a single complaint falls from her mouth. When she is sent to Jorrvaskr after sunset, Vinci offers Tilma a weary greeting before crawling into a cot and falling asleep. It becomes routine for her: the woman pushes her body to run, carry, deliver, run, shovel, run, carry, and deliver in endless cycles. Adrienne is not easy to please. By the end of the second week, the woman hands over fourteen gold pieces with a grunt.

Vinci’s eyes well with tears of joy. She feels Adrienne’s stare on her when she departs back to the mead hall for the evening, counting and recounting her coin with a growing enthusiasm.

The next day, she shows up while the morning is dark as night. _Magnus_ has yet to rise over the realm. Vinci’s tired eyes reflect joy when she greets Adrienne. “I want to buy iron ore.”

“…Iron ore.” Adrienne pauses. The woman puts her hands on her hips. “What for?”

“Does it matter?” The Silver Hand almost laughs at how silly it is, how ridiculous she sounds. She is covered in grime, in dire need of a bath, and she knows she needs to ask the Temple of Kynareth to borrow a new set of robes.

“It’s two gold a piece.” Adrienne states sharply. “I have four chunks in the shop. I can have my husband move them wherever you want.”

“Just—The furnace. I’ll—I’ll smelt them into ingots at noon.” Vinci nods.

“You know,” the lady frowns. “I’ve never seen a person so excited over iron before.”

“It’s _my_ iron! It’s mine.” The Silver Hand hands over eight gold pieces, eight days of hard, back-breaking labor. Vinci exhales slowly and wipes her eyes. “Divines help me, I am going to cry over owning iron ore. It isn’t even in ingot form yet.”

“…You really own nothing. To be so joyful over…” Adrienne trails off. The Imperial woman hesitates. She looks at the eight gold in her hand. “…Iron.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Vinci smiles to herself. She looks to the side. “To finally have something you can call your own? After everyone took everything from you?”

“…You are a strange woman.” Adrienne frowns.

“I'm starting to accept that.”

She finds time to wash in her third week of work. She is indefinitely grateful to have the ability to stop by Arcadia’s Cauldron and ask the older shopkeeper for assistance with circumnavigating monthly bleeding that might otherwise impede her work. Granted, the woman who tends the shop claims to send every _bill_ to Jorrvaskr, but Vinci has yet to see _one_ in the mead hall. She keeps her focus on her job.

She finds some tasks come easier as weeks pass: the steps of the districts are less tedious to haul equipment up and down, she does not run out of breath so easily, and jobs like smelting ore and feeding the forge become as familiar to Vinci as the back of her hand. She has four iron ingots in a small box at Jorrvaskr, kept neat and tidy in a location Tilma claims is hidden from nosy eyes. Those ingots are _hers._ They are soon joined by an entire _corundum ingot_ when the woman saves enough to buy an ore off Adrienne. The Imperial woman is never openly thankful, but she sometimes remarks on the hard work Vinci accomplishes.

“Tomorrow,” Adrienne remarks one day at noon. Vinci is a mess of aching, sore limbs sprawled out on the ground. She has three apples in her arms that she snacks on greedily while Adrienne continues. “—Bring your ingots here.”

The Silver Hand frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because you want to learn to _smith._ ” The blacksmith does not look up from the grindstone she works at, a great sword in her grasp. “But you can’t without materials.”

“I can’t anyways. Not yet.” Vinci looks to the side.

Adrienne pauses in her work. The woman squints and eyes Vinci. “Why not?”

“I need to save more.” Vinci offers only honesty to the woman. “I need… two pieces of silver ore. Probably more. Four, then? And… more corundum ore. That will go with the iron to make steel. Oh—Leather! I need leather strips. I think.”

“You won’t be able to get the silver. It’ll take months of work for _one_.” Adrienne remarks offhand.

“Then I’ll have to work for months. Maybe years.” Vinci looks at the apples in her lap. She shrugs. “I’ve been a prisoner longer than that. I was a prisoner for a group for…” She counts on her fingers, slowly and carefully. “Eight years. Then… Ten years. Eighteen years total?”

“How old are you?” Adrienne squints.

“I don’t know, actually.” Vinci admits quietly. “I think I’m thirty-five. I put my age at that number. But I’m older than thirty.”

“Over half your life, then.” The blacksmith observes. “What are you trying to make?”

“A longsword.” Vinci pauses. “I think I used to know how to fight with one. But it wasn’t made out of steel. It was steel and silver.”

Adrienne grimaces. She rises to her feet and pats down her apron. “Wait here.”

Vinci eats an apple while she waits. The crispy flesh of the fruit satisfies her. She looks up at the sky and watches clouds move across it. Though she expects Adrienne to return quickly enough, perhaps with a new set of orders to get her on her feet and running, the woman doesn’t. Vinci’s body relaxes as she waits. She can’t help but sing under her breath, soft and almost inaudible. “…If the nighttime comes… an’ we gotta run… look for each other and wait for a sun…”

“Where’s the song from?” Adrienne is outside without making a peep of noise. The woman sets down chunks of rock by the forge and crosses her arms. She eyes Vinci expectantly. “It’s pretty.”

“My mother used to sing it to my brother. Whenever he got hurt. She would sing the pain away.” Vinci answers honestly, because Adrienne demands nothing less. The woman stands with an apple in each hand. She pauses. “—Before my brother died—He sung it to me, to keep my pain away.”

“What was his name?” Adrienne pauses.

“Vinci.” Vinci nods. “His name is Vinci.”

“…Ah.” Adrienne’s eyes flicker with something she cannot read or follow. The blacksmith sucks in a breath and kicks the ores at her feet. “You want to make a longsword? Is that what calls to you?”

“A silver-steel longsword.” Vinci frowns. “What are those?”

“I’ve given it some thought. Spoke with my husband. He agrees. You’re a hard worker. Work deserves to be rewarded,” Adrienne shuts her eyes. “—I can only cover one attempt. You mess this up—I can’t fix it. Materials gone. Wasted. Understand? I’ll show you how the ropes of the forge, but I can’t make this kind of sword you’re talking ‘bout. Never heard of it. You got to handle that part.”

The woman’s green eyes widen. Vinci drops the apples she holds, staring in disbelief. She knows how tight Adrienne’s pockets are at times. The woman constantly seems strained for money.

“You would do that for me?” Vinci breathes.

“Only once.” Adrienne huffs. “Run and grab your ingots. We’ll use a couple to get you a feel how it all works. Understand?”

The Silver Hand nods fervently and nearly trips on her apples in the scramble to get up and bolt back to Jorrvaskr. She knows she is a mess of grime, of dirt, of everything that entails _smithing, delivery, shoveling coal into a furnace_ and she cannot find it in her to care. She catches the stares of multiple Companions as she runs to the stairs descending into the living quarters. The woman is not out of breath like she has been in the past; she is a sweaty mess of growth, thriving and flourishing with far more stamina than she has had in _years._ She is in such a rush she does not watch her steps nor where she is going; when she collides with metal she yowls in pain and falls backward unto a stair.

Her head hurts. It does not bleed, but it _hurts._ She winces and rubs it.

“Hey! Watch it,” The feminine voice is snappy, then it pauses. The woman exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake. Why does it have to be _you?_ ”

“Sorry.” Vinci mumbles. She cracks open an eye and finds none other than Ria peering at her, annoyed. The woman frowns. “Have you seen Tilma?”

“Bottom of the stairs, right side.” Ria shoves past her and walks off.

It does not dawn on Vinci that Ria being there entails she is back from a trip. She is too excited, lost in the spur of the moment as she walks briskly down the stairs and asks Tilma where to find her box of ingots. The old woman informs her with a note of exhaustion.

“—I put them in the Master At Arms’s quarters… Vilkas is very understanding—” Tilma pauses. The old woman looks tired, though it could just be signs of age. “—He should be in there, actually. Got back this morning with Ria—"

Vinci straightens upright. Her eyes are bright and shining, a vivid green against her black hair. “He’s back?”

“Indeed. But—You may want to knock. I think Njada went in there to talk to him a bit ago… Why, I’m not sure when exactly. Was it before my nap? After?” Tilma runs a hand through her white hair. “I would knock, my dear, you never know what two Companions are up to—But I’m sure he can help you get your ingots. They should all be in a box beneath his cot, closest to the door."

“Thank you, Tilma,” Vinci nods.

The old woman chuckles. She makes for the stairs, “If you excuse me, my dear—I might go outside. Sit and enjoy fresh air.”

Vinci watches the woman climb to the mead hall, making sure to wait and see she navigates the stairs without any problem before she lets her thoughts turn back to _smithing_ and _Vilkas_ and the delighted mixture of the two. The timing could not be better; she is ecstatic at the idea of potentially making a longsword and showing him in the same day, or set of days. Then he will have _no_ excuse not to train her. And if he happens to have an excuse—The woman can find someone else to train her, or try and train herself. She will know how to fight, how to defend herself, and be _useful_ beyond just a pawn held hostage by a bunch of warriors.

The woman finds her current wear somewhat embarrassing. She is a mess. She wonders if she is even recognizable with the grime on her skin and her unkempt hair, the latter in _dire_ need of a dozen combs minimum. Vinci ignores the thought; she strides through the main hall and crosses to the Circle’s private quarters. The rooms have an interesting alignment with two on each side of the west wing. It takes her a moment to find Vilkas’s, tucked away neatly in the corner of the upper west wing’s side. The woman frowns at the sight of the door slightly ajar.

“Vilkas?” Vinci says under her breath. She feels her stomach do weird flips and twists. She doubts a werewolf could injure himself by tripping over his own feet, or stubbing his toe, but part of her remains alert and worried.

She raises a hand to knock but soft sounds from within the room halt her. Vinci’s body freezes as she listens. She knows the sounds, ones very much like the kind she and Krev once made together in a decade past. Color drains from her face. She can hear the thumps of a bed bumping against a wall, no doubt mid-coitus. Vinci doesn’t dare _look_ through the crack in the door. Nor does she need to, because the moans of the room rise in volume. She clamps a hand over her mouth in realization she is eavesdropping on a very intimate moment.

“—You useless man—” it is Njada Stonearm. Vinci recognizes the voice. “—Finally found— _Something_ to be good at!”

She backs away from the door. _Divines help me. I need to go. I need to go. But my ingots. My… What do I do? What do I do?_

“She wouldn’t—” The growl that follows is deep and needy. “—Say that!”

She is listening to Vilkas. She is listening to Vilkas and Njada have sex, specifically.

Njada snorts. “You really—Enjoy—Thinking about her—In this—"

 _“Vinci,”_ the groan that follows her name is orgasmic.

The woman freezes before _flight_ kicks in as a response. She tries not to fall over and stumbles backward instead, crashing into the far hall doorway to Skjor’s room. Even as she hears the two in the room stop, and Njada call out who is there, her world spins and spins and spins. She instinctively crawls into the very recesses of her mind, where things don’t have to make _sense_ and she can go by her dead brother’s name with _no one_ questioning it and _Vilkas doesn’t have sex with others thinking about her._ She is vaguely aware of rising to her feet and bolting from the west wing, nigh-tripping on the stairs up and running from Jorrvaskr to the looks of a very confused Tilma. She is vaguely aware of walking circles aimlessly through the Wind district of Whiterun, lost and disoriented in thoughts she cannot make sense of right now.

She is vaguely aware of walking back to the Warmaiden’s, pale as a ghost and stiff as a corpse with rigor mortis. Only when Adrienne stops hammering at something on a workbench, looks up, and exhales sharply does Vinci let all the twisting, turning, churning, storming emotions inside of her bubble up and over. She does not remember how to deal with the complexity of thoughts, feelings, and desires inside of herself, so she does the thing she knows best: she lets the tears well up and she begins to cry, primarily out of frustration at herself. The silent tears are her only companion even when Adrienne takes her in arms and holds her.

“I won’t ask about the ingots.” Adrienne remarks against her, stroking the woman’s hair and grimacing. “...How ‘bout you take the day off, come inside, and I’ll talk to my husband about getting you a meal while you sort yourself out?”

“Please.” Vinci whispers. When she draws back, she sees a damp spot on the blacksmith’s dress.

Adrienne sighs. “C’mon, then. While we’re at it—Let me take a look through my clothes. Divines help me, you won’t sit at my table and eat dirty like that.”


	12. gallow's rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rune travels with farkas to gallow's rock, where aela and skjor expect them. it is time to cut the silver hand down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (throws plot confetti everywhere)  
> thank u for reading  
> had fun with this even tho writing a billion of area descriptions is SO TEDIOUS  
> getting into some real fun chapters :D

“—Sorry about your brother.” The Dragonborn speaks en route to Gallows Rock, an abandoned fort within the hold of Eastmarch.

He travels on Kelloggs, the trusty cream-colored mare obedient and patient for his incessant stops on the way to the Silver Hand encampment. Farkas has his own horse, a black steed by the name of Charcoal. The two ride their horses saddle-side the other, the closest thing to walking together in the rough terrain. He enjoys the man’s company; Farkas speaks little but he _always_ listens and Rune is nothing if not full of endless babbling about the world around him.

It is good to talk, to consider happy things and pleasant, peaceful observations given the impending bloodshed once they find the encampment. The Silver Hand is a group Rune desires to end, and he knows they will not go quietly. He wants to hold off on turning back into the bloody, messy, violent Dragonborn he knows he can be. He carries a grudge from months past, when Skjor sent him and Farkas to retrieve a fragment of a dead guy’s weapon. That incident not only almost got Farkas and him butchered, but it also prompted Farkas’s obsession and _that_ was nothing short of a nightmare to resolve. Just the memory of turning around one late night, alone on Kelloggs, and seeing his dear friend’s hulking, vicious form preparing to lunge at him… Rune shudders internally.

He glances at Farkas. The man is full of resolve, but occasionally his gaze dims. He has many thoughts but possesses a reluctance to share them.

“It happens.” Farkas offers in response.

East March is a pleasant hold in the summer. Come winter, the territory will be a crock pot full of bologna with icy crevices and slippery roads. And _giants_ , according to Farkas. Rune shudders at the thought.

“You think Aela and Skjor will chew us out for taking so long?” Rune glances at the man. Kelloggs snorts beneath him; the Dragonborn hushes the mare and turns back to Farkas.

His Companion frowns. “Yes.”

“Sounds about right.” Rune snorts. A genuine look of concern crosses his features. He pulls on Kelloggs’s reins. “Woah—Woah there, easy girl.” The Dragonborn waits for Farkas to halt his horse before meeting the man’s gaze. “—I’m trying not to pry, but are you okay?”

“Fine.” The werewolf glances away.

“Farkas. Farkas!” Rune repeats the name until the man gives in and meets his line of sight. The Dragonborn frowns. “I am actually prying. Prying without remorse for it, either. Are you _okay?_ With… Everything that’s been happening?”

“It isn’t your mess, Shield-Brother.” The response makes Rune groan.

The Dragonborn tenses on his horse. “Okay, yeah, it _isn’t_ , but I’m a nosy _fuck_ inserting myself into your business. I know I’m not good at expressing this—But I care about you. We’ve been through a lot together. Good and bad.”

He is a terrible comforter because the guilt that ensues in Farkas’s expression kills him inside. Rune bites his lip.

“…You have,” the werewolf agrees. “Which’s why I don’t want you in it.”

“Too late for that. Dragonborn business duty shit. I’m involved.” Rune decides to make it up on the spot, as stubborn as a gnat in a zoo. The man crosses his arms and narrowly avoids falling off Kelloggs’s back. The horse stomps a foot impatiently, but Rune ignores her.

“I…” Farkas hesitates. “What my brother said. Before.”

“I wasn’t in the meeting, nor did I find a way to eavesdrop, so.” Rune says.

“That I don’t care about what happened to us. What we lived through.” Farkas shuts his eyes and sighs, sounding all too much like Vilkas a moment before the man continues. “It isn’t—I _do_ care about that. I don’t disregard it. It led us to now. But—It hurt. Him blowing up like that.”

“Not a good look for him.” Rune agrees.

The werewolf snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. You know. Aela—Skjor. Those two’ve had obsessions before. Kodlak, too, before our time. They know what it’s like. _I_ know what it’s like. Vilkas? He doesn’t. He doesn’t _get_ how fucking worried we were. How worried _I_ was. I was,” Farkas grits his teeth. “I almost transformed to look for him. Aela talked me out of it.”

Rune’s eyes widen. The man recalls the distaste Farkas once told him, of how the transformation process repulses him. It is an embrace of feral, primal instincts, fueled and guided by a Daedric Prince’s desire to _hunt_. He knows Farkas can handle himself, but imagining the man returning to the same agitated, bloodthirsty state he’s seen him in the past… The Dragonborn swallows. “Yikes.”

“I owe Aela a drink for that.” Farkas nods stiffly. “You see what a mess it is?”

“Yeah.” Rune frowns.

“And it isn’t—” Where Rune expects the man to cut himself off and return to his quiet tendencies, he is proven wrong. Farkas carries on with a large scowl and a grunt. “—It isn’t I don’t—That I don’t think Vinci could be Leilani! I _want_ that to be the case. I miss her too. But we don’t know. Not a hundred percent. If I assume she is… And act like that… And she isn’t… Think what a bigger mess it’ll be. This’s a sabre tooth, but it could turn into a mammoth. You want to hunt a mammoth?”

“Metaphorically or literally?” Rune can’t resist a cheeky grin at the man’s grimace. “I mean. Yeah. I understand. Though, if we are throwing things out, I am still not entirely convinced that lady isn’t a werewolf.”

“She isn’t. That would be easy.” Farkas sighs.

“I know what I saw,” Rune looks to the side. “There is some kind of magic on her. Daedric magic. The kind of Daedric that can take a mortal and make ‘em something else.”

“She’s too warm to be a vampire.” Farkas comments offhand. The man squints at Rune’s eyebrow raise. “—She hugged me once. That was it.”

“Uh-huh.” The Dragonborn can’t help but chuckle. “Hey—As long as you don’t forget _me._ It’ll be real ugly if you do.”

It is said in jest, but part of the man feels a ping of unease at the thought of it. He enjoys Farkas’s company, a _lot._ The man puts up with him on his good and bad days. Sometimes, Rune gets a chance to glimpse the complicated world of Farkas’s brain. He likes it. He likes him. The idea of that one day leaving, of _Farkas_ one day leaving… it upsets him. Rune frowns and grabs the reins to Kelloggs before his thoughts spiral into a Debbie downer’s.

“…I doubt a Daedra could forget you, mutton head.” When Rune glances over at the man, he is positively giddy to see the briefest smile on the werewolf’s face. It only lasts a second, but it is enough to wipe away any negative Nancy thoughts from the Dragonborn’s mind. Farkas looks to the side.

“Yeah. If anything, a Daedric Prince would get tired of me. Throw me away.” Rune grins ear-to-ear and faces forward.

He doesn’t give Farkas a chance to reply, squeezing Kelloggs with his thighs and laughing as the horse breaks into a run down the road. The rest of the ride is just that: two men and their horses, enjoying the company of each other, a glass of snark, cup of sass, and the beautiful wilderness of Eastmarch in the late summer. The Dragonborn is utterly relaxed by the time he finally makes out the ginger-hair of the Companion’s deadly huntress on a hill south. He points her out to Farkas and the two divert their horses from the road, dismounting to walk their horses up on foot when the terrain becomes too rocky to judge from saddleback.

Gallows Rock is less imposing in person. After tying horses to nearby trees and meeting up with Aela, Rune makes a point of looking upon the camp below while the huntress rattles off a lecture about _timeliness_. The Dragonborn has little doubt it is for both Farkas _and_ him, but he pretends it is only for the former and zones out Aela’s words entirely. The woman is strong, and he respects her, but sometimes her mom-like tendencies remind him too much of his own parents back on Earth. _I never sent them that email. How worried are they? Does time pass on Earth while I’m here? Maybe it doesn’t matter. I don’t know if I can get back there, anyways._

He glances at Gallows Rock, a ruin of a fort surrounded by pitched tents, tables, and camp fires. The fort is named for a set of gallows near the fort’s front entrance, but they are in disarray and a skunk would be more intimidating if put side-by-side. Rune narrows his gaze at the sight of Silver Hand bodies strewn in a bloody mess across the ground. He feels the wind whip through his hair as he turns back to Aela and Farkas; it is just in time for Aela to call out. “—Skjor and I took care of the guards outside. Staked a perimeter. He went inside to scout ahead while you two took the scenic route.”

“It was very pretty, thank you.” Rune grins.

When Farkas says nothing, the Dragonborn glances at him. He is surprised to see the werewolf tense, fists clenched and gaze narrow. “—That is _exactly_ why we chewed out my brother! _What is Skjor doing?”_

Farkas is very loud when he is angry, Rune notes.

“You forget, Shield-Brother, I am right _here._ I can smell him. If he howls, I will hear. This is vastly different than the disgraceful stunt Vilkas pulled.” Aela snaps.

“Okay, okay—” Rune can see a fight brewing a mile away. He crosses between the two and holds up his palms. “—Look, it is reckless, I agree, but instead of talking let’s just _go_ and join up with Skjor and talk after those Silver Head bastards are dead.”

“Silver Hand.” Aela corrects.

Rune groans. “Head! Hand! _Same thing!”_

“Fine. Let’s go.” Farkas isn’t happy with how the discussion ends, if his leer at Aela is anything to go off of. Rune catches himself almost putting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. He reels back and turns his attention to the fort.

The fort’s upper levels are too unstable to toy with. It is the ground floor and dungeons that hold the remaining Silver Hand members. Though Rune anticipates seeing Skjor’s one-eyed gaze or smug grin accompanied by dozens of dead werewolf hunters, he sees neither—except the dead werewolf hunters. Though the Circle member is not to be seen, the man sees evidence of Skjor’s work. There are four dead Silver Hand members in the entrance hall. A corridor branches off on both sides of the chamber with a third directly opposite the fort doors.

Something is wrong. Rune senses it the second he realizes the lack of guards around what appears to have been a _very_ loud battle. There are chairs knocked over, broken bottles of wine, and weapons scattered across the floor. The Dragonborn throws an arm out in front of Farkas and Aela before his two Companions can take a step. Rune feels eyes on him, but he conveys the seriousness of his demeanor with the soft whisper-shout, _“Laas yah nir.”_

It is risky to do three-word shouts. They force his thu’um to rest longer, the innate magic strained to manifest in powerful forms. But the shout of Aura Whisper is not as strenuous as other shouts. He blinks and finds his vision swarming with crouching, creeping red blobs further in the fort. The man curses softly under breath and draws his short sword. He hears Aela notch an arrow in her bow and Farkas unsheathe his great sword. Rune waits a long moment, watching the red blobs of Silver Hand members move with caution deeper within the fort. He tried to single any out as potentially being Skjor, but none fit the man’s wolf armor silhouette. That alone unnerves Rune enough for the Dragonborn to exhale softly.

“—What did you see, Shield-Brother?” Aela asks in but the smallest of whispers.

“…They know. They know someone is here.” Rune whispers back. “I don’t see Skjor.”

“Oblivion, no. No. I refuse to believe he would fall to _Silver Hands—”_ Aela interjects, but ceases her words when Rune lifts a hand.

The Dragonborn points to the left corridor. “I’m taking right.”

Aela hisses. “We are _not_ splitting up.”

“If Skjor is alive—He is probably a prisoner. Hostage, maybe. We need to find him and retreat. There’s so many of them, damnit,” Rune runs his free hand through his hair. “Look, they are expecting _werewolves._ They’ll be using _silver_ weapons. Neither of you can go off on your own. I’ve seen what silver does to Farkas. Let’s not repeat that.” The Dragonborn’s gaze dims.

He does not enjoy any thought that involves Farkas being hurt.

“Shield-Brother.” Farkas pauses. _“Rune._ We spoke. Outside. Splitting is—”

 _“Reckless,_ yeah.” Rune grins cheekily at the man’s concern. “But I’m not a _Circle_ member. Nor am I a werewolf. I’m Dragonborn, and they won’t expect that. Honestly—” He pauses and rubs his chin. “I would go so far as to say you two should stay here, by the door. If Silver Hands outnumber me—I need you two to run.”

“We are not abandoning a Shield-Brother! No—We are not splitting up _again_ , absolutely not.” Aela grits her teeth.

“I hate pulling this shit, but I am gonna go pull the Dragonborn card.” Rune tilts his head to one side. His brows furrow and he stares at Aela without flinching, fully serious. “I am telling you as the _Dragonborn_ not to run around and fucking throw yourself into fights with these guys. Not even if you hear me in a scuffle. Stay _here._ ”

“This is foolish behavior!” Aela hisses, softer this time.

“Yeah, that’s me. The fool. I’m full of madness. Call me _Sheogorath_ , eh?” Rune snorts at the thought, amused by the notion. He waves at his Companions before dipping into the right corridor, refusing to wait for further protests. He knows they won’t follow. The Companions, even _Kodlak,_ know that when the Dragonborn says anything along the lines of _‘pulling a Dragonborn card’_ it entails utmost urgency and obedience. They will listen to his words, he’ll find Skjor, then the four can regroup and discern the best way to cut down the ugly Silver Head bastards.

 _Hand, head, no real difference._ Rune thinks as he sneaks through the corridor.

By the Divines, he is _glad_ he wore light armor for the trip. The man does not want to know how loud his steps would be in heavier armor. He is a sneaky and sly shit, _sure,_ but sneakiness only goes so far when it comes to keeping quiet. Factors like the heaviness of a material and the fucking shit-ton of noise it makes when it scrapes a wall are just as important to soft steps. Rune finds he is perfectly quiet as he trails the corridor to its end and peeks around a corner. He sees it break off into a large room with multiple doors. Two Silver Hand members stand guard, each as bored and annoyed with the other as they are with the mundane environment.

At least—that is what Rune likes to think they think. He does not have the chance to find out; he whispers _laas_ and confirms the other doors hold no Silver Hand members behind them before he sneaks up behind and severs one’s neck at the base. The other Silver Hand jumps backward in fright at his sudden entrance; he shouts _tiid_ and rushes forward in the few seconds it takes for time to catch up with him. The man grimaces at the blood that spurts when he withdraws his blade from the individual’s throat. The Silver Hand gurgles and flails weakly before falling over, a mess of crimson against the cold floor. Rune wipes his blade off on the edge of his armor and tries each of the doors.

All but the last is locked, a nuisance given he does not have time for _keys._ Nor does he remember how to lockpick, nor does he _own_ a lockpick. He distinctly remembers how long a lecture Kodlak gave him when the man caught him trying to pick open an _empty_ display case. The Companions have zero tolerance for crime, save maybe Aela. The huntress is a wild card on too many fronts. Rune makes a note to ask her after they get done with Gallows Rock.

The man’s eyes widen in surprise at the last door. He struggles to open it, forced to take a step back and kick it open from where it is stuck shut, but the man stops and gawks once the contents hit him. He pushes past the broken door and steps into a room laden with bizarre notes, etchings, maps, and tomes. The Dragonborn’s nostrils are overwhelmed not by dust, or cobwebs, or even candles, but by the smell of dried ink. This room was in use recently enough for someone to take notes.

Rune's brows furrow. _It isn’t just a collection of decrepit nonsense; it must be relevant to the Silver Hand’s goals._ The man takes precious minutes to pick through the collection of old-looking journals, papers, and parchment. His time isn’t a waste: the Dragonborn discovers a trend.

Each of the items in the room, save for furniture, appears to be connected to _Daedra_ in some way. Some are scraps of a map to a supposed summoning circle or campsite from ten years ago, some are reports on the Oblivion Crisis of two-hundred-years-back—that gives him an especially bad sense of déjà vu—and some of the documents reveal illustrations of different types of Daedra and their uses. He does not have the patience to read everything; the man sifts through the most interesting notes and skims the contents. His eyes widen at a name that pops up over, over, and over again: _Namira_. He remembers the name from his time spent playing _Oblivion,_ long before the mess of _Skyrim_ was forced on him.

Namira is a strange Daedric Prince. Some call her a Mistress or Lady of Decay. Others refer to her as the Daedric Prince of all that is repulsive. Rune vaguely recalls one of her nicknames as being the _Ancient Darkness,_ wholly separate and unique from Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Lady Luck responsible for the prosperity of thieves everywhere. The emphasis on Namira is startling. When Rune starts to look solely for the name, he finds most old writings, books, and maps to reference her in some way. Her influence or lack thereof in the opening of Oblivion Gates two centuries ago, a list of the disgusting tendencies her followers strive to fulfill, and locations hinting at groups of cults devoted to Her Ancient Darkness.

 _Forgotten Ones._ The name of the group is circled on multiple pages. Rune squints. He recalls it being a cult in _Oblivion,_ a union of monks devoted to Namira’s darkness. The Dragonborn feels dizzy at the surrealistic nature of his present circumstances. _Why did I get put here, specifically? If the R-N-G gods of fictional universes wanted me to live out my life somewhere… Why not in Oblivion? Why not that game over whatever this is? Am I a beta tester being punk’d?_

His little sister would get a kick out of the fact he questions the notion. He misses her. He misses home, a little, even with its rent and deadlines and _stress_ of submitting visa applications in time.

The Dragonborn’s thoughts are cut off by a massive _howl_ from another part of the fort. The man freezes in place. His heart pounds in his ears as he whispers under his breath, _“Laas yah nir!”_

 _God dammit, you two!_ He despises the worry that comes to mind. It wears on his thoughts. He wants to jump ship with compulsive actions, run headlong into a fight, but the man hesitates at the number of red auras in his vision hounding two Companions. He needs to be careful. He can’t let adrenaline lead him into a reckless loss. He forces himself to walk back—a very brisk walk—as quietly as he can, short sword on hand and dozens of shouts at the tip of his tongue. Yet when the effects of Aura Whisper fade and he loses sight of both the Silver Hand members and his dear Companions, he feels a cold sweat break out across his body. Rune musters control of his breathing and backtracks to the corridor linked with the entrance hall. He peeks into the hall. It’s empty. The Companions ran off.

The man bolts across the hall to the left corridor. Rune curses a dozen times under his breath. The left corridor has a different layout; it immediately opens into a hall devoid of _living_ Silver Hand. Several corpses catch his eye, apparently taken by surprise to some degree. Two are pegged with arrows and one's head is cleaved in. _Why did you assholes run off?!_

A set of caved in stairs is at the far end. Directly left of the stairs: a door, slightly ajar, stands proudly in the wall. The sounds creeping in from beyond horrify him. He stops at the doorway, unwilling to push the door open just yet. The man shuts his eyes and stills. He listens to the pacing of a creature from one end of the room to another. Growls and snarls ring out. _One of them transformed. Which one? I haven’t seen Aela as a werewolf! If she’s feral—I don’t know how to stop her!_

Divines help him, he could barely stop Farkas as it was months ago and he _knew_ how Farkas fought as a werewolf. Rune swallows. _Everything is going wrong._

 _“Laas.”_ Rune pushes his thu’um to manifest in a short display of red auras in the room ahead of him. He stiffens at the silhouette of one body splayed in a corner, red but fading. The werewolf's red aura guards it against multiple, upright figures. Horror flips his stomach; Rune cannot keep himself from kicking the door in and coming out swinging. He clashes against the sharp silver-steel great sword of one Silver Hand, a Nord woman who shoves him back with surprising strength.

The Silver Hand screeches at her allies. “—Leave one alive! Kill the rest!”

 _“Oblivion,_ die already,” Rune spits at her feet. He parries a surprisingly quick lunge and slams his elbow into the woman’s back. The man makes to slide his sword cleanly through her neck, but she throws herself backward at him and knocks him off his feet. He crashes against a table and scrambles to rise. He sees the woman do the same. He raises his short sword and lets the first shout fly, _“Zuun haal viik!”_

“He’s Dragonborn!” The Silver Hand shouts and weaves to the side when Rune starts lunging for her, her weapon thrown away from the force of his thu’um. "Take out the other two! I'll handle him!"

The other Silver Hand members turn their attention to the massive, furry beast standing on hind quarters near a still body. Rune can’t focus when the dragon spirit inside him comes alive with a need for _blood._ He lets loose a _deep_ snarl and slashes the Silver Hand swordswoman across the chest. The force is enough to make her gasp, and she staggers backward, but her armor holds. The woman hisses at him and ducks the next swing. She comes up with force Rune doesn’t expect; the man yelps when her palms lock into his chest and throw him into the door.

 _"Zu'u fen ag hin kotin Oblivion!"_ Rune swears on it. He is already on his feet and preparing to lurch forward when something stops him. A soft _twang_ rings out and the man feels his right arm drop, barely holding unto his short sword. When he glances down he sees, embedded in his neat leather armors and light furs, the gleam of a silver crossbow bolt. His eyes drift up in time to see the Silver Hand members at the side raise reloaded crossbows and take aim. Rune exhales sharply at the _twang_ s of crossbow strings releasing. He shuts his eyes and waits for pain but no new pain comes. He hears a weak yip and a body thud as it hits the ground. He opens his eyes and sees the maimed werewolf sprawled out in front of him, _riddled_ with crossbow bolts. He stares. Rune wants to believe it is another outlier, a random werewolf who couldn't be anyone he knows. 

_But that is someone I know._ The Dragonborn’s face drains of color.

He looks at the corner and identifies the large silhouette he saw before as Farkas's body.

The werewolf is Aela.

Neither move. Rune wants to scream. Only the fury bubbling inside of him keeps the noises back. 

“They live if you cooperate,” The woman he fought before, the _fucking Silver Hand_ Nord with long blond hair in a braid, speaks with authority. A lot of authority, in fact. Authority that makes Rune realize she isn't merely another fighter in the faction; she is not _just_ a hunter of his friends.

“Why hasn’t he gone down?” A Silver Hand calls from the side. _“Tulle!”_

“This one isn’t of the blood,” the woman snaps back. She stares at Rune without fear. “You believe you can knock us down before we kill your Companions, Dragonborn? Think carefully.”

“I’ve had shittier odds,” Rune seethes the words. He feints lowering his weapon, only to suck in a deep breath and force his dragon soul to shout, _“Tiid! Klo! Ul!”_

The shout of _Time-Sand-Eternity_ breathes around the room. He has only seconds, but it is enough for him to leap at the Silver Hands on the side and plunge his sword through the cracks in their armor one-by-one. The seconds pass by before he can return to the leader, but by the time Time returns to its usual function and catches up with him, he no longer has to worry about Silver Hand members using crossbow bolts to nail him to the wall. He turns and extends his sword at the unarmed leader, Tulle. _His_ eyes hold a deep, simmering need to _cut down, bleed, let them each drop into Oblivion._ He is so close to ripping her throat with his bare hands. He has done it before; a Dragonborn’s strength is his enemies’ worse fears.

“You were saying?” Rune howls. _“_ You were _fucking_ saying?”

Tulle slowly raises her hands. She trembles. Her lips are blood-red and her skin is white. It is an improper balance; Rune wants to turn _all_ her skin blood-red. His nails yearn to _skin_ and _sever_. His teeth beg to _sink_ and _tear._ The Dragonborn grips his short sword tightly. When Tulle does not respond, Rune does not hesitate to run and bring the sword down on her stiff body.

His mind is full of mistakes and thinking a Silver Hand wouldn’t try to do _something_ is a big one. The woman reacts instantly, any guise of fear falling as she throws a hand up to bounce the sword’s blade off one gauntlet. It gets stuck in between two fingers and _digs,_ but in spite her growl of pain, Tulle ignores it. Rune finds the sword suddenly _twisted_ from both individual’s grasp as the Tulle jerks her arm at an angle and forces it to fall at the side. Rune is caught in a moment of confusion and the Silver Hand leader doesn’t waste opportunities; she balls her free hand into a fist and she slams an uppercut into the Dragonborn’s jaw. The woman pushes him backward with the momentum and brings her knee into his abdomen, directly connecting the place where his chest piece ends and hip guards begin. Rune shouts and falls against a wall; he snaps his eyes open and throws his head aside the first punch but not the second or third.

Blood spurts from the gushing wound on the woman's injured hand; she is hurting _herself_ to attack him. Rune realizes it just in time for the woman to grapple him. The ensuing crash sends up dust when Tulle throws him over her shoulder; the man screams in pain when he lands on the crossbow bolt in his side. He grabs at his torso and tries to rip it out; Tulle stomps on his hands away. Rune feels bones crack and air be forced out of his lungs. He tries to whisper the shout of fire, the breath of _yol toor shul_ , but he can only croak and heave when the heel of the woman’s boot slams into his gut. He sputters and tastes blood as another long cry leaves his lips, involuntary and pained. The man hears her rise and walk to his short sword. Tulle is back at his side in a second, calmly ripping the man’s head back by his hair and running the tip of _his_ sword over his neck. It draws a small line of blood, mixing and melding with Tulle's own on Rune's skin.

The pain is immense, an existence of agony crashing upon every inch of his senses. He can’t make out details from tears blurring his vision. He can’t see Farkas or Aela. He can’t even see Tulle, though he knows she is there.

“You are immortal, Dragonborn. They say dragons can only be killed by dragons.” Tulle drops the sword and grabs him by his throat. “So if I kill you here… you will rise. Because I am _mortal._ I am of humanity. I walk the land. I am a Nord, and you are _dovah_. You would only die if your age caught up with you, or another of your kin cut you down." Tulle's gaze narrows. 

" _Joor mindol,_ " Rune gags and chokes. _"_ _How?"_

"You would like to know, wouldn't you? The secrets of mankind. Our struggle to survive against your kin! Tch, to think some claim you are the ultimate dragon slayer... It aggravates me! All you immortals do is terrorize us of Nirn! We are the salt of the soil, the blessings of Divines... You can slay all the _dov_ you wish. But it does not change your nature. Your violence. Your lust for domination. Do you understand, Dragonborn? Why we _hate_ you so much?" Tulle hisses. “Whether you are _Daedra_ , _dovah,_ or a _beast_ blessed by one… All of you act like you have the final say in our fates. Like we cannot control our destinies. I despise you, Dragonborn."

Rune doesn’t know what the lady talks about. He doesn’t care. He wants her dead. He wants every other Silver Hand dead, too. He wants them all to _burn_ in an inferno of his thu’um, to freeze flesh in the cry of _Iiz Slen Nus_ , yet the woman and her faction lives. She looks at the blood dripping from her hand to his neck, the same spot his short sword caught in her gauntlet moments prior. The grasp on his throat loosens enough.

 _“Laas._ ” He has the air to whisper. The man looks at the corner where his fallen allies linger. He looks beyond the tears blurring his vision and begins to weep at the faint masses of red that pop into his sight. _They live._ _They live. They live. Please. Divines. Akatosh. Save them._

“Tulle!” The voice comes from above. “You done?”

Rune feels his blood freeze over. His shout lasts enough to count five red auras, where a caved-in section of the upper floor reveals multiple Silver Hand members peering from above. _There were more waiting. Waiting for her to finish... toying with me._

“Aye. Emile.” Tulle rips off her gauntlet and shoves it into Rune’s mouth. He hisses only a moment before his teeth bite on the metal and taste blood. He is forced to hold it in his mouth, a disgusting gag while the woman finds rope to bind it to his head. He hopes she shoots herself with a crossbow. The hate bleeds with the rest of his body.

Other Silver Hand members climb down from the upper floor. One of them is a a man with dark hair that curls like a bush. Those are the only details Rune can make out beyond the Silver Hand’s voice. “Look at this… damn. I feel bad for the bastards, and they killed how many?”

“Don’t say that.” Tulle’s voice is harsh and firm. “They are monsters. No sympathy for those of the _blood,_ those of the sky. Feel pity for our fallen comrades, for the ones who have _names_. We will deal with this filth and then bury the fallen. One of the wolves is already dead.”

“Hey—No need to remind me. I watched you cut his throat.” Emile muses aloud. The man sounds wistful.

“Friva!” Tulle shouts the name from the side. The woman is already finished with him and the Companions, moving on to important things compared to ants squashed under her feet.

Another Silver Hand answers. Her voice is soft and solemn. “Yes—Yes m’am!”

“The dead wolf’s body is in the dungeon. Cut the head, ready it to be sent to Jorrvaskr. I'll write a notice of our demands; the Companions cannot ignore this greeting."

 _Skjor._ Rune cries where he lays, a mess inside and out. He imagines Aela and Farkas would cry, too, if they were conscious.

“—Gonna share why you haven’t killed these rodents yet? Vermin needs to be exterminated.” Emile sighs loudly. He is _bored._

Rune wants his head. Rune wants _all_ their heads. Rune wants to throw them at a chopping block over and over until their heads are nothing more than endless slabs of gore to step on.

“We received word last night, Emile. A... little bird spotted our rat in Whiterun. Reports are a Companion named Vilkas has her in his protection.” Tulle pauses. The woman’s steps draw near; she wrenches the Dragonborn to his feet, twisting his arm behind him in the process to keep him compliant. Rune wouldn’t resist even if he _could._ The pain is too much. He has broken things he doesn’t know the name of.

 _It hurts,_ is the only thought running around Rune's head, next to the endless desire to impale the Silver Hand members on spears.

“—Dragonborn, good and bad news. You have use. You live. I intend to trade your life for my little sister,” Tulle snaps the words. “Then there is... Bad news. Your _Companions_ have one use. I need insurance this transaction goes smoothly."

“There are two of them.” Emile points out. “Tell me, oh _charming_ leader, how many we need alive?”

 _“One._ ” Tulle growls. She shoves Rune to another Silver Hand. “—I will make the choice for you, Dragonborn. I know you are a busy man,” she peers at him. He hopes his glare is evident and visible, as full of hate as it is of pain. The Silver Hand smiles at his muffled growls. “By Stendarr’s mercy, we will purge this land of the filth that hides in tainted flesh. It starts _here.”_

Rune sees the woman raise _his_ short sword over the fallen Companions. He tries to struggle, but something sharp crashes into the back of his head and he blacks out in a sea of silver pain.


	13. your new babysitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the harbinger asks ria to do something. she really does not want to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy december 25th  
> i'm sick and i get to work but on the brighter side of things  
> there's a fun chapter coming up after the next one that i'm really excited to get to  
> so  
> (confetti)  
> edit: this chapter and the previous chapter were edited dec 25th  
> ^_^

She never thought _Vilkas_ to be a sexually-charged man. Unlike Torvar or even Aela, who constantly ran ladies in and out of the whelps hall until Kodlak put a halt to fornicating in shared spaces, Ria never heard the same of Vilkas. She assumed he was the kind of man who either didn’t need sex in his life, or needed very little of it. Initially she hadn’t cared—and she wishes that never changed—but when months passed and Vilkas began teaching her how to fight, the woman found herself drawn to his firm but kind ways. The two even built up a friendship, sharing drinks, joking and laughing, and for a time Ria had been content to allow things to stay the same.

Then Rune got captured, the two got to save his dragon ass, and _she_ came into the picture. Ria wishes she hadn’t agreed to bring the woman. Vilkas had been opposed to it from the start; they could have left the prisoner behind without blinking twice. None of this _Vinci this_ or _Vinci that_. Just her, and him, and the rest of the Companions being a big, happy family.

 _If only that happened._ Ria thinks as she watches two Companions spar, Torvar taking on Athis’s nimble blows with a lasting persistence.

She had gotten so caught up in her feelings, so desperate to make them _real,_ that the woman had gone so far to seduce Vilkas in a cave bear hunt. She had enjoyed every second up it up till the end, when the blatant reminder she was and is always a persons _second_ choice came back. The man had howled the Silver Hand’s name at the peak of his orgasm. Ria had no choice but to accept reality then. She and him were Companions, comrades-in-arms, but that was all. If the Silver Hand lady wasn’t dawdling around things could eventually find a semblance of what they were. Not the same—never the same, not after Vilkas and her in the cave—but something _like_ it.

 _No. I shouldn’t blame Vinci. She knows fuck-all what goes around here._ Ria takes a long drink of water. She knows better than to drink when she is sad, but the woman misses the feeling of alcohol burning the back of her throat.

No, the big problem and reason she cannot move on is all on _Vilkas_. And Njada, apparently. Ria only had to walk in on them once to not make the mistake again. Njada has no qualms about fucking the man when he calls other people’s names. Her Shield-Sister beds him nigh-daily, with the sounds sometimes loud enough to make Ria storm over from the whelps hall to pound on the door for a moment’s respite.

In the end, all it takes for Vilkas to become a sexually-charged individual is finding a chick from a faction sworn to oppose the Companions. Ria does not understand him nor does she want to. The woman wants to stay far, far away from him; she fully intends to do so outside of hunts and the mead hall. He has not spoken to her once since the two returned from the cave bear trip, per _her_ request. She only speaks when it involves Companion business or to shout at him and Njada to _shut the fuck up_ about their bedchamber habits.

“Ria,” the voice makes her snap upright in her seat. The Harbinger demands nothing less; he is a presence that draws attention of even the two Companions sparring nearby, though Torvar and Athis return to their mock-fight once Kodlak settles his attention on her. The elderly man takes a sit across from her. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, my friend.” Ria clears her throat and sets her water down. The Imperial woman crosses her arms and offers him a courteous smile. “Though—Normally it’s us that come to you for advice.”

“Vilkas has.” Kodlak hums. The man tilts his head to one side, observing her reaction.

She does not bother to hide her distaste. The woman gags and huffs. “About fucking time. No offense.”

“I agree.” The Harbinger chuckles. “Quite a mess he’s made. I am not a leader, for we Companions have no leader, but I wish to counsel those involved. Find a resolution. We are Shield-Siblings; we must have each other’s backs.”

“Well, there isn’t much to say.” Ria grunts. She scratches her cheek. “We fucked. He doesn’t want something long-term. And,” she snorts. This whole subject is a mess and a half to wade through. “He wants to fuck our Silver Hand. Never took him to get sexually-frustrated, but shit did I know…”

“—There is something else. Something you did not know of,” Kodlak hesitates. It is unusual enough to draw Ria’s full attention back to the man. He clears his throat. “A long time ago, Ria, a group of necromancers kidnapped him and his brother. They were children, kept in the darkness of cells and cages until a man named Jergen intervened.”

“I know that part.” Ria’s dark brows rise. She squints at him.

“—There was another child there. A girl named Leilani. She became very close with both.”

“Oh boy,” the Companion groans and holds her head in her hands. “How many women—”

At Kodlak’s cough, she shuts up and listens. The Harbinger eyes her studiously. “According to both Vilkas and Farkas, Leilani didn’t survive. She died shortly before Jergen rescued the boys. That should be the end of her story, but! _But_ ,” Kodlak purses his lips. “She had a brother who died right after the twins were kidnapped. A twin brother of her own, in fact. A boy with black hair and green eyes named _Vinci._ ”

“You’re kidding.” Ria blurts out, making the mental connections on her own. “Vilkas thinks she’s one of them? The Silver Hand? That’s what has him fucking every broad in Whiterun? By the Nine—"

The Harbinger shakes his head. “He does not want to admit it. But he believes the Silver Hand _Vinci_ is in fact Leilani from nigh-twenty-years ago. He is enthralled by the possibility.”

“What a weirdo.”

“The thing is… Ria. So does Farkas,” Kodlak pauses. “—And so do I.”

Ria snaps her head up and stares at him. “…Harbinger. I… I do not understand.”

“The day our _Vinci_ jumped off the Skyforge bluff—Do you know why?” Kodlak pauses.

“She said—She said you said her name. You said Vinci, didn’t you?” Ria frowns.

“I told you all I did,” the Harbinger bears a wicked grin, proud at his own scheming. “No. I said _Leilani._ Our Silver Hand reacted the way she did because she heard someone call her by _her_ name! But I didn’t call her Vinci, Ria!”

“…She’s not Vinci?” The Companion stares. 

_“Exactly,”_ Kodlak hums in satisfaction. “Granted, her immediate reaction tells me something is messing with her mind. Grief, perhaps. Trauma does a number on a person’s mental capacities. I don’t fully understand what ails her, Ria. But I suspect she _is_ Leilani. How she is alive… How she came to be part of the Silver Hand… It confounds me, it does. But I believe she is Leilani, though she might not be ready to admit it to herself. …Which brings us back to Vilkas.” The Harbinger leans back in his seat. “As I said. I spoke to him this morning. We had a long talk.”

“Talking doesn’t always fix things.” Ria grunts. She shuts her eyes.

“It doesn’t. But it helps figure out the next step. He admitted he has developed a deep attachment to _Vinci._ His hopes over her being _Leilani_ has significantly impaired his judgement. He recognizes that. Which is why I’m here. Vilkas informed me he is stepping down from the Circle. He is no longer one of the four,” the Harbinger’s words drag Ria’s attention back to him. The woman stares. Kodlak nods. “He will remain a Companion, but he admits his grievances. I will save you the embarrassment of sharing intimate details with an old man.”

Ria’s face heats up. She had not mentioned _that_ part, the reason for her distaste. “I appreciate that.”

“Vilkas has been a member of the Circle for thirteen years. He became part of it when he was very young, a mere twenty-one years of age. Cutting himself from the duties and respect it entails is not to be taken lightly,” Kodlak clears his throat. “I told him it is not enough.”

“It isn’t.” Ria agrees. The woman looks to the side. “I’m not rolling over and forgiving him just because he realizes he fucked up hard, Harbinger.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” Kodlak says.

“Then what? What is he gonna do?” Ria squints.

“I told him that is up to you,” the man grins ear-to-ear. Kodlak glances off to the side, where Athis and Torvar are taking a break for the latter to wheeze and pant. “You don’t have to forgive him. I don’t know if I would, had the shoes been switched. But if you think _something_ might help you feel better—I will pass it along.” 

_There’s a thought._ The Companion pauses. She considers it. “—I’ll let you know.”

“Now,” Kodlak continues. The man isn’t done, much to Ria’s surprise. The Harbinger drums his fingers on a nearby table laden with wine bottles, mead glasses, and Tilma’s homemade bread rolls. “There is… something I need to ask of you. A favor.”

 _A favor for the Harbinger?_ Ria stares. The Imperial Woman fiddles with her hair, pulling it out of the bun and attempting to wrangle the mess of locks into a ponytail. “Um… What?”

“I asked Vilkas to keep an eye on Vinci the week after you two returned with Rune and the Silver Hand. He cannot, clearly.” Kodlak’s chuckle is soft. “And with the rest of the Circle— _And_ the Dragonborn—Off hunting the Silver Hand in Eastmarch—Well. It is impeccably bad luck. Bad timing. I have no one to watch her.”

“—You’re kidding, right?” Ria rises to her feet. Her teeth clench. “She—That woman—That _Silver Hand_ —You want me to _babysit her?_ ”

“I am asking you to. You can say no, Ria. I won’t think ill of you for it.”

“By the Divines—By Talos himself—” The woman cusses a string of colorful words. She jabs a finger at the Harbinger, respect out the window. “What makes you think I’ll do shit better than Athis or Torvar? Or even— _Njada_ —I’m biased, Harbinger! I hope she stubs a damn toe, falls in a well, _something_ —It’s a conflict of interest!”

“It is. A terrible, terrible idea.” Kodlak nods fervently.

“Then why?” Ria growls.

“—Why did you join the Companions, Ria?”

“I—What? I’ve told you this, before—The stories about the Companion’s greatness! It spread as far as Cyrodiil!” Ria does not know why the man wants to know. She sputters the words partially out of confusion why it is relevant. “I—I heard stories when I was a little girl—Tales about heroes like you—Like Skjor—Fighting off a hundred-and-one Orc berserkers! Cutting down ten bears with a single dagger! Of you, your predecessors, of the original five hundred and the Return—Of Ysmir himself! His legendary weapon, the Wuuthrad!”

“Yes, you’ve told me.” Kodlak stands. He brushes himself off, though Ria never saw dirt on the man’s attire to begin with. The Harbinger looks at the sky. His eyes soften. “Let me rephrase the question, Ria. Why did you leave Cyrodiil?”

“To join the Companions?”

“Beyond that.” The way the man talks annoys her a little. Kodlak is being cryptic again and Ria cannot understand the meaning of his words.

She gives up on her hair’s ponytail and lets it hang loose around her. The woman shrugs. “I wanted all of _this._ I always wanted all of this.”

“Why did you want it, Ria? Wasn’t Cyrodiil enough?” Kodlak pauses.

Ria frowns. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

“Go with that thought.” The Harbinger puts hands on her shoulders. “Tell me where it leads.”

“Well,” Ria swallows. “I… grew up in a fancy household. Father an officer of the Imperial army. He and my mum had three daughters. I didn’t care for what my parents wanted. It was just… It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t my home. But tales of the Companions… their legendary prowess, spread across Tamriel… It drew me from my childhood home. I wanted that. I wanted to—”

“Belong?” Kodlak guesses the word.

She nods. “I didn’t belong in Cyrodiil. The Fighters Guild was alright, but—But I wanted to be _here._ This is my home. This is where I am meant to be, where I belong.”

“Does everyone deserve that?” The man’s tone becomes quiet.

“Well—Yeah. Yes. I think so. At least once in their life.” Ria reluctantly nods.

“Even Vinci?”

Ria doesn’t answer.

Kodlak releases her and steps back. “She’s been a prisoner most of her life. You had the opportunity to leave and find your home, Ria. She has not.”

“She’s… Divines, Harbinger,” Ria runs her hands through her hair. She hisses. “She’s a _Silver Hand_ —”

“And you are an _Imperial_ , yet you find your home in Jorrvaskr, with us Companions: a group once based around asinine concepts like racial purity,” Kodlak remarks. “Your feelings toward Vinci are rooted in your grief. She is the object of Vilkas’s attention, and you are not. But _she_ has not done you ill.”

Ria hates that he is right. The woman sighs and looks away. “You think a Silver Hand has a home here?”

“Maybe not. But she deserves the chance to find her place in the world. To find where she belongs,” Kodlak nods. “She is more like you than you think.”

“Fine. Fine! I’ll do it,” Ria grimaces and crosses her arms. “I’ll babysit her. Protect her. Whatever.”

“Good, good!” Kodlak grins and claps his hands. “One other thing.”

“How many more things can you have?!” Ria doesn’t mean to speak it aloud, but she blurts the thought out before she can think twice. The woman slaps her forehead and groans at her own impulsiveness. “Sorry.”

“I don’t want you approaching Vinci on this subject. Her reaction at the Skyforge when I called her _Leilani_ —She can’t be forced to resolve what grips her mind. I thought I could make her address her problems, but they are more complex than I first thought. I now believe she must heal at her own pace is. As for Vilkas,” Kodlak grunts. “He struggles with his own trials and tribulations right now. Coming from another... the knowledge may aggravate his problems. He does not have a little bird in his ear."

“Tilma’s got a name,” Ria snorts.

“She does, but she blushes to high heavens when I call her the Companions’s _little bird.”_ Kodlak’s smile is cheeky, especially for an old man. “—Now, you have a Silver Hand to find! I believe she’s at… Ah, was it Adrienne’s? Yes, the blacksmith’s. The Warmaiden. She’s a hard worker.”

“I’ll pass the compliment along.” Ria snorts.

She doesn’t, merely out of the irritation in her head by the time she tracks down the damn woman. The Silver Hand is not at Jorrvaskr anymore. Ria recalls a recent encounter a week past where the woman nearly ran her over on the stairs. She had looked _covered_ in grime and sweat, and she smelled of a forge. Though Ria initially thought the lady would be at the Skyforge, perhaps watching Eorlund work, she finds her at the Warmaiden’s working the day away. The black-haired woman looks less flimsy than Ria remembers. There is muscle in the Silver Hand’s arms, evident as Vinci shovels and shovels endless amounts of coal into the forge and ore into the furnace.

The Silver Hand has no desire to speak with her. No sooner does Ria clear her throat and stride up to the woman does Vinci stop mid-shovel and eye her with caution. “No.”

“I didn’t say shit yet, _Oblivion,”_ Ria curses. The woman’s eyes narrow at the Nord. “—Look, I need to talk to you.”

“Answer’s still no. Leave.” Vinci turns back to the Warmaiden’s furnace.

But Ria is a stubborn woman. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have gotten to Skyrim in the first place. Aetherius knows she rejected a dozen suitors in her time back in Cyrodiil. The Companion grits her teeth. “I ain’t leaving until you talk.”

“Then Adrienne can have you removed from the grounds.” Vinci snaps. The woman has more bite than Ria gives her credit for, although it isn’t saying much. Vinci shovels a pile of crumbled ore into the furnace for smelting. “—I’m not talking to any Companions.”

“Uh-huh.” Ria cocks a brow. She feels annoyed. “Yeah, don’t try to yell or cry or _snap_ your way out of this conversation. It’s happening.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m your new _babysitter._ ” Ria emphasizes the words, making her distaste of the matter clear. Her hands tense. “Because Vilkas is off _fucking_ around. So, I get to guard you. We got shit to talk about, Silver Hand.”

Though she expects another retort, none come. The woman pauses and glances at Vinci. Her eyes narrow at the sight of color draining from the woman’s face. The Nord looks ready to throw up in comparison a second ago. Ria watches a glimmer of panic set into the woman’s face, accented by wide, uneasy eyes.

“Leave. Leave now.” Vinci’s hands begin to shake. “I don’t want to think about him. I’m not thinking about him. I’m not. Go. I don’t want to talk to you!”

The Silver Hand’s reaction is strange. If anything, Ria thought she might be smug or flustered. This is far from a blushing bride-to-be or cocky have-it-all. The Silver Hand is genuinely nervous by her words, put off and set into an anxious mess. Vinci is nothing like the silver-tongued woman she was a second ago. It puzzles Ria. She cannot help but stare, intrigued. _Shouldn’t you be happy? He wants you. You’re his first choice. Isn’t he yours?_

“Go! Go, go, go! I don’t want to talk to any of you!” Vinci hisses. She points the shovel at Ria. _“Leave me alone!”_

“That isn’t happening, _Vinci,_ ” for a moment Ria almost slips and calls her Leilani. She knows she could, that she wields that degree of power, but she holds her tongue. She storms up to the trembling mess of a Nord and eyes her. “—The _Harbinger_ asked me to _watch_ you and _guard_ you and fucking keep you out of _shit_ because Vilkas is too big a fuck-up to do it properly!”

The name ‘Vilkas’ sets off another reaction, one closer to what Ria initially anticipated. She watches the Nord’s face become a deep, embarrassed red, or perhaps one of anger. _Both, maybe? What did Vilkas do to piss you off?_

 _“Hey!_ Companion!” The voice comes from the doors of the Warmaiden, where an Imperial woman with red-brown hair and an apron over her dress stands watching the duo. Adrienne’s eyes narrow on Ria. Ria glares back at her and shifts her attention from Vinci, allowing the latter to back away, shovel still in hand. Adrienne marches up to Ria without any hesitation. “My apprentice is in the middle of a job. If you want to talk, come back at sunset.”

Ria exhales sharply. She really, _really_ does not have energy to argue. She gives up. She can try another day. “—Fine. Fine. _Fine._ Sunset, then, _Vinci_.”

As if on cue, a commotion erupts at Whiterun’s primary gate. Ria frowns and looks over her shoulder. She spots multiple guards running from their posts and approaching a lone Hold Guard, who leads a familiar horse by the bridle up to the gate. The Companion squints. _Cream-colored mare? Where have I seen one of those? The farms outside Whiterun, maybe? No. No._

The group of guards quickly expands to a small crowd, as several citizens wander nearby to catch a hint of the spectacle’s origin. From the guards comes a sharp cry of, “Companion! Get a Companion! Run someone to Jorrvaskr—”

“I’m a Companion,” Ria holds up her hand in greeting and strides into the crowd, effortlessly passing by people as guards and citizens alike step aside. She squints and eyes the Hold Guard at the horse’s side. He wears a helm but the visor is up and his troubled expression visible. Ria grimaces and puts her hands on her hips. She knows she must display confidence; the people of Whiterun look up to the Companions and she intends to demonstrate _why_. The Companion clears her throat and looks across the crowd. “—What’s going on? Mammoth attack? Bears? _Another_ giant attacking a farm?”

“No. No.” The lone Hold Guard pants.

 _Did he run here? When he has a horse?_ The Companion raises a brow.

“There was—A rider. A rider came by the western watch tower.” The guard breathes deeply and gulps in air like it is the only water of a desert for miles. His chest heaves and he gestures at the horse. “—They had… another rider. Another horse. Then—This one. Said… Companion! Horse. Take. Rode off...” The Hold Guard coughs and sputters.

Another guard snaps her head and calls out. “Water! Get this man water!”

 _Wait._ Ria’s eyes widen. She pushes past the exhausted Hold Guard and tentatively approaches the horse’s side. The mare is friendly enough. Ria sees why: the horse knows her. She holds up a hand and the horse sniffs it and pushes her palm with her snout. Vaguely, Ria recalls the horse doing the same thing to her in the past. _Rune introduced us to his new mare, after the last one got eaten alive by a dragon. Her name is Kelloggs. We laughed at him for days. What a shit name. But,_ Ria pauses in her thoughts, concern rising in her stomach and crawling up her throat. She looks at the crowd. “This is the Dragonborn’s horse. Was he not present?”

“No.” The tired Hold Guard accepts a waterskin from another guard and drinks it in less than a minute. The man wipes his lips and sighs. “No. No. Just… two riders. One a Nord woman. Short. Simple clothes. Another—A Breton. Curly hair, short nose. Armor that gleamed like silver in the sun. Breton handed the horse to us and… He said to take it to the Companions. It belongs to one of ‘em. One of you, I mean.”

Ria bites her lip. “That all?”

“We checked the saddle bags. Made sure nothing nonsense was inside,” the Hold Guard shuts his eyes and exhales. “There’s a... container. A package, Companion. It...”

“Okay…?” Ria follows where the man gestures. The woman walks to the saddlebag and undoes the primary compartment’s clasp. She pulls free a strangely-shaped package, wrapped in butcher's paper and twine. Ria gags at a terrible smell wafting from it. “What in Oblivion is this?!”

“There’s a note on the paper. We didn’t… None of us could stand to read it.” The Hold Guard hangs his head in shame. “…If it is true… If this is of a Companion, then… Companion—We should have done something. We did not. We are cowards.”

She doesn’t understand the words at first. Ria’s mind is occupied with freeing the string encasing the package and its contents. Her hands snap the twine and a mass of sloughing skin and maggots goes flying into the crowd. It hits the ground with a squelch and one scream erupts, then two. Guards begin to curse and some keel over to vomit; even Ria cannot hold in her stomach when she catches sight of what _it_ is. The woman staggers to the side and begins to cough up the day’s breakfast. When she can stand the noxious odor, the foul, permeating _aroma_ of rot, Ria forces herself to look. She makes herself look, and then she makes herself pick _it_ up. She wraps it in the same paper it came in, unable to bother with formalities and respect when the dead has already been desecrated.

“Take—” Ria coughs and gags. “Take the Dragonborn’s horse— _Kelloggs—_ Take her to the stables!” The woman can’t stand to be there a second more than she must. She finds citizens have already ran for clean air and guards back off without hesitation as she breaks into a run through the streets of Whiterun. Ria breathes through her mouth and ignores the taste of vile in her throat as she runs, and she runs, and she runs.

Jorrvaskr looks almost peaceful when she throws herself through its main doors. The mead hall is full of Companions. Athis and Torvar are in the middle of a drinking contest, Tilma is cleaning up a spill of the former, and Kodlak and Vilkas talk quietly at the end of the mead hall. Even Njada is present; the unpleasant woman watches Athis’s and Torvar’s antics with the closest thing to amusement Ria has seen in the woman in a long time. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Ria doesn’t give two shits about Vilkas’s presence as she catches Kodlak’s gaze. The man picks up something is wrong; he rises to his feet and shouts to quiet the mead hall.

It’s good he does, because Ria’s composure lasts only a second more before her eyes well with tears and she chokes on the words, “Skjor is _dead!”_


	14. things things things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci struggles to come to terms with things having to do with vilkas, a tree, and her unending desire to have nothing to do with kodlak whitemane ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place during the same day as the last chapter
> 
> side note i am currently sick so what was gonna be 2 chapters is being split into 3/4 chapters because chapters 3k-4k in length have been easier for me to work with lately (compared to some chapters in the first two parts of consumerism, which could get... really lengthy aha)  
> hope you enjoy, merry christophermas everyone

_The Harbinger asked me to watch you and guard you!_ Ria’s words ring through her mind, the voice just as sharp and cold and capable of setting her off as it had been when first spoken. Vinci’s gaze dims. She knows she would have lost control of herself if Adrienne didn’t intervene and shoo the Companion away. Even after, the blacksmith made her take a break and sit until her stomach settled. But Vinci knows she cannot truly be settled: the realization Kodlak intends to keep butting his head into her life freaks her out. It is bad enough she feels faint and nauseous at the mess of emotions that rises from the mere mention of _Vilkas_ in conversation.

“Think you can run this to Dragonsreach for me?” Adrienne calls from the side. The Imperial woman holds up a steel breastplate. The piece is large, but nothing Vinci has not carried before. The woman frowns but nods. Adrienne grunts and passes it off to the Silver Hand. “My father, Proventus, serves as the steward for Jarl Balgruuf. He’s a tall man; clean-shaven, blue coat and big sword. You won’t miss him. Hurry back after.”

“I will!” Vinci hefts the piece up against her chest. She trots up the street of Whiterun and begins the climb through the districts.

The autumn air is wonderful after the sour encounter with Ria. Vinci does not even know why the woman detests her. She remembers their conversation in the mead hall, directly after returning from a two-week trek around Whiterun Hold, where Ria and herself engaged in pleasantries and peaceful small talk. Vinci had thought the two got along. Perhaps not as _friends_ , but acquaintances.

 _I’m wrong about all of them. All the Companions._ Vinci feels her arms ache. She grits her teeth and adjusts the breastplate against her. The design reminds her faintly of wolf armor, what with metallic inscriptions and embellishments of Whiterun’s towers where a wolf would be otherwise. She glances at the metalwork. Her eyes soften. _Adrienne is a good smith. I’m lucky to work under her. I’ll get this to her father quick and hurry back. Maybe she can help me figure out what kind of crucible I’ll need for smithing steel alongside silver._

She pauses at the Gildergreen in the Wind district, the middlemost section of the city. The large tree still shows up as a mass of silver in her gaze. No headache comes. Vinci cannot help but stop and stare at it, wondering what it all means. She knows the Skyforge does the same, and that the two _things_ are the only things capable of showing her the beautiful silver shapes without provoking ailing headaches or migraines. _I see the silver. The… silver of living things. But only in the darkness, unless it is you or the Skyforge. Is everything else insignificant? Or are you just strong enough to withstand the light, silver Gildergreen?_

She has never touched it before, but a _need_ to reach out and feel the bark comes over her like a soft, bidding voice. Vinci swallows and looks around. Aside from Hold Guards walking their usual rounds and occasional kids running by, no one is present. No one watches her. She sets the breastplate on a bench directly adjacent the tree before the woman turns to it, strides to the trunk, and lays a hand over the bark.

She feels, hears, and breathes a _heartbeat_. Her stomach flips; she attempts to reel back as her vision swarms and spirals. A lightheaded sensation engulfs her mind and her sight fades in and out, spinning all the while in dizzy circles. It isn’t right. She doesn’t feel right. She needs to let go.

Her hand doesn’t move. She can’t recoil when her hand is latched unto the tree, practically sucking the wood into her skin. Vinci cries out and puts a foot on the tree trunk to brace herself against it. She tries to pull herself free by force, but the tree is stubborn even against her new muscles. The _Gildergreen_ does not give. If anything: it takes. It pulls. Vinci shrieks and feels the tree reach out for her through her skin; the tree shoots inside her body, bursting through her form like shoots taking root in new soul. An immense wave of ethereal energy flows into her body. It pierces her skin and causes rich red blood to drip down her arms and unto the tree trunks. The woman sobs in pain when it intensifies to a point she cannot stand _still_.

The Silver Hand begs the tree to let _go._ She curses it to Oblivion’s planes and back, she whispers soft pleads for mercy, she hisses and thrashes and squirms for it to _stop_ and release her. Then she loses sensation in her body. She feels herself stand idly even as the pain increases; her eyes lock unto the tree’s silver mass. The opaque silver slowly fades from her vision, replaced by the natural appearance of a dying tree in autumn. She watches the already spindly branches wilt to shrieking skeletal-like husks. The Gildergreen’s trunk appears to bend and its branches slump toward her. Her eyes widen and she feels her mind jolt. _No, no, no. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me!_

 _I would never hurt you._ A mouth rips open on the trunk and breathes words into her ears.

Vinci screams. She feels arms wrap around her and rip her free from the monstrosity the Gildergreen has become. The tree’s reach into her soul wriggles and scrapes her insides as it flits out the way it came, the roots dragging against her veins and tearing free as her vision is blasted by darkness. The woman flinches and throws her arms up to shield herself. She hears a distinct grunt. Though she falls backwards, the woman does not hit the ground. The same pair of arms catch her from behind.

When the world returns to normal, the woman finds the Gildergreen is in fact a skeletal, dead shell of a tree. The woman feels hands brace against her. Her head falls back; her gaze trails up. She swallows when she meets the pale brown eyes of a Companion. The familiar wolf armor gives it away. That and the definite facial features, like the stubble across the man’s chin or the heavy bags under his eyes. Vinci is silent a moment, lost in the Companion’s gaze.

It’s been well past a month since she saw _him_ last. Perhaps closer to two. Perhaps _more_ than two. She has spent many, _many_ days smithing. And, since she heard Vilkas and Njada in bed together, she has gone out of her way to avoid not only him, but Jorrvaskr and the Companions as a whole. If Vinci had it her way, she would live in a world where the Harbinger never bother her again, where Ria doesn’t yap on about being a babysitter, and where Vilkas doesn’t give her looks as confusing as they are conflicting with her mind. Divines, if she could only sort out _one_ of the problems she would feel a lot better.

 _That would be easy._ Vinci lets Vilkas push her upright. He lets her go and steps back. She swallows. _Nothing is easy. Nothing is ever easy._

For a second, she lets her mind wander back to the Gildergreen. It is dead. The tree has entered a state of decay because of _her._ When Vinci looks at her palms, though, she finds she does not bleed. No sign of injuries remains on her palms; Vinci holds them up and turns her hands over to examine every inch of skin.

“…Vinci?” Vilkas speaks with disbelief.

She stiffens. In a moment, she had forgotten he was there. Vilkas has a way of doing that to her, melding seamlessly into the background. She knows it is not so easy as him being a man she can _forget,_ someone of insignificance. Truthfully, it is the opposite. Most people around her she notices out of a hyper-vigilance. Most travelers, recipients for deliveries, and smith customers she picks up on because she is paranoid or frightened of them. She is easily unnerved, flighty, and jumps at dozens of things every hour of every day, rain or shine.

 _But not you. I feel safe with you. I feel…_ The woman swallows. She is beginning to panic again, not at him but at herself. Feelings are turbulent, scary things that make her think thoughts she doesn’t know she would normally think. Things about _him_. Things that make her revisit what she heard at the ajar door. Things that make her wonder other things about him. _I feel things with you._

She notices his stare. She stiffens when he reaches out and wraps her in his arms. As much as she feels _something_ with him, she can’t help but exhale softly and lean against him. The familiar gesture soothes her soul. It feeds the need for closeness. It feeds something else, too, that same _something_ that keeps her from fully pushing him out of her mind. She feels terrified at herself, at the thought of processing what it all means, what words might describe the mess she is, and in seconds the Silver Hand begins to fall apart once more. She shakes. “—What are—What are you doing?”

She steps back when he releases her. Vilkas looks like he is or wants or feels a lot of _things_ , too.

“I… I shouldn’t of.” Vilkas follows the sentence with a soft string of curses. He averts his gaze. “Sorry.”

Both Silver Hand and Companion fall silent. Vinci’s stare is distant. She wants to take hold of him again. He is so warm when the world is cold; she could bury her head in his chest or neck or back and breathe in the heat forever. She hates that the thoughts return to her. She did so well when she was running deliveries for Adrienne or shoveling ore into a furnace for Adrienne or doing _something_ for Adrienne that kept her far, far away from Jorrvaskr and it’s shitty Companions. Ria had to come and interrupt the semblance of routine Vinci built in her life. The woman feels bitter at the thought. She feels annoyed and angry and sad and things she doesn’t know the name of, both at Vilkas and Ria and Kodlak and every other Companion.

“Why are you here, Vilkas?” Vinci decides to ask.

 _I don’t want you there. Or here. Or anywhere. Nowhere. Not right now. Not…_ The thoughts begin to swarm. She holds firm against her own mind’s attempts to detach and dissociate. She needs to _know_ , both for her sake and the sake of figuring out how in Oblivion she plans to deal with him from then on. _Do you even know? Do you know I almost walked in on you? Do you know what I know, Vilkas?_

“—We—We’ve been looking. For you. It’s—It’s important. But—" The man breathes out slowly. The Companion hesitates. “Vinci—"

 _“What?”_ She feels defensive now. The tone puts her on edge. The thoughts of him fucking Njada Stonearm put her on the precipice of a dangerous mental spiral. She can’t tell if it’s because he slept with Njada specifically, or if it is because the man called for _Vinci_ in climax. Both entail different things and those things are things she doesn’t want to think about.

Vilkas clenches his eyes shut. “Where were you? Kodlak’s got everyone looking for you—"

“I was busy doing my _job_ ,” Vinci snaps. She looks at the ground. In retrospect, no one will believe her if she claims a tree came to life and spoke to her. Or that a tree tried to eat her. Even if the Gildergreen has history, even _she_ doubts it was more than a hallucination; the plant was dying to begin with and she recalls finding no injuries on her hands.

“You have a job?” The Companion doesn’t believe her. “Vinci.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” The Silver Hand turns away. Her eyes scan the benches and she finds the breastplate Adrienne asked her to deliver to Dragonsreach.

“It does—” Vilkas begins. He takes a step forward, eyes full of concern. “By Mara, you were gone _hours!”_

 _It’s nighttime,_ Vinci realizes. She freezes at the thought and looks at the sky overhead. _I lost time… I lost time. Did I? It was afternoon, wasn’t it? Did I just—Did I stand at the Gildergreen all day?_

She checks her hands again. Her skin is intact. She has no injuries to prove the encounter with the tree was anything more than a hallucination. The lack thereof of blood, in spite of lingering, blistering pain in her head, makes the woman’s face drain of color. She swallows and turns her attention back to the breastplate. “I have to take this to Dragonsreach. I have to take this to Dragonsreach. Right now. Adrienne—She’ll kill me being so late—” The woman’s eyes water. “By the Divines—What if she fires me? What if I don’t have a job? I’m so—I thought I was close to… To making…”

 _I guess it doesn’t matter._ Vinci shuts her eyes. _It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you around. I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to think about… About…_ Heat rises back into her cheeks. Her thought begin a habit of looping back to unpleasant topics. In this case, it is the thought of a door ajar and Vilkas and Njada behind it.

The woman exhales slowly. She hates how utterly broken she feels over someone’s bedroom habits, so disgustingly _heartbroken_. It makes her heart ache with a horrible weighted sensation; it gives her _heartache._ The words for the two feelings make her face light up red, a dangerous mix of confusion, of adamant denial, anger, and _things things things_. Things need to go away! She needs to go away and put space between herself and _him_ before her mind snaps and she dissociates completely for Divines knows how long.

She grabs the breastplate and turns away, mumbling all the while. “I’m going to Dragonsreach—I’m going to Dragonsreach _now_ —I’m not talking to _you_ —"

“The Harbinger—”

“I’m not talking to Kodlak! That man can _rot_ in Oblivion!” Vinci hisses. She clutches the breastplate to her chest and storms past him, walking briskly up the stairs.

“—They have Farkas!” She hears the defeat in the mans words.

It makes her stop. She spins on her heels and looks down at him. His gaze is dark and sunken. Vinci breathes, “What?”

“The Silver Hand,” Vilkas says. “They have—They have my brother, Vinci. They have Farkas.”

There’s a strange tone to his words. For anyone else, Vinci would refuse to believe it. She is nervous by nature, a mess of a woman trying desperately to rebuild some semblance of normalcy. But she feels safe with Vilkas. She doesn’t want to trust him, but she does. When she stares, she finds his eyes are wet with tears yet to fall. He’s stiffer than a board, utterly unbecoming the powerful warrior she knows he is. When his words sink in, her eyes widen. Her voice drops to a whisper, her turn for disbelief even when she knows it is true, “How? _How?_ ”

“Gallow’s Rock.” Vilkas says the name. At her bewildered stare, he glances to the side. “…The Circle… and the Dragonborn… They left a month past. Left to clear an encampment of Silver Hands at Gallow’s Rock.”

 _Aela. Skjor. Farkas. And… Rune._ Vinci knows the names.

“Why aren’t you with them?” She asks quietly.

The man hisses softly. “—Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And it’s a _problem.”_

Vinci freezes. “Don’t—Don’t talk about that! I don’t want to think about it! I won’t! I won’t.”

Her words surprise the man. Vilkas’s face drains of color. “ _Oblivion_ —You—You knew?”

“I heard you with… Njada Stonearm.” She clenches her eyes shut. “I don’t want to think about it. I won’t. I _won’t._ Just—Leave it. Leave me out of it. I asked you a question!”

“Vinci—” Vilkas breathes. His hands tense into fists. “—I—That’s part of the answer!”

 _“How?!”_ The woman begins to shake. She doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t want to think about him and her and _things_. But it’s not because she doesn’t _want_ to think about those things; it’s because of something beneath the surface of her thoughts. In the recesses of her mind, where she hides beneath the name of her dead brother, she knows she fears what thinking _those_ thoughts entails. She knows someone else thought thoughts of those once; she knows, twenty years ago, a teenage girl named Leilani held the same affection for Vilkas. She cared about the man when he was a youth and the two in cages.

 _I’m not Leilani!_ Vinci screams the words in her head. She almost drops the breastplate. The woman sucks in deep breaths to calm herself. _I’m not Leilani! Leilani likes Vilkas! Leilani is dead! I can’t be Leilani! I’m Vinci! Leilani’s the one who likes Vilkas. Leilani’s the one that cares. Leilani… feels safe with him._

_Leilani’s dead._

_I can’t like Vilkas. That’d make me Leilani. And she’s… Leilani is dead._

_I’m Vinci._

She feels safe when nobody disturbs the way she sees the world. She feels protected as Vinci, the strong and courageous individual who protects those who are weak and full of tears. She feels capable when she is _Vinci,_ even if the name is not her.

 _But I’m Vinci. I’m Vinci._ Vinci drops the breastplate and grabs her head. She ignores the sound the armor makes and hisses loudly. “I’m Vinci! _I’m Vinci!”_

“Companions! Are you two okay?” A Hold Guard calls from up a set of stairs.

“I’m not a Companion!” Vinci _shouts_ back. She hisses with pain. The world hurts and the Gildergreen is dead and she wants _nothing_ to make sense anymore but everything keeps moving forward.

“Vinci.” Vilkas’s voice is very soft but she hears it from the base of the staircase.

She turns around and looks at him. Her green eyes are big and wide. Like the world, she has to keep moving forward. She needs to. Of all the Companions, Farkas did her no wrong. Neither did Rune, even if the Legendary Hero was a pain in the ass on more than one occasion. She stares at Vilkas. “Why—Why weren’t you with them? Why does the Silver Hand have Farkas? Where’s the rest?”

The man’s hesitancy answering spells ill. Vinci’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

“They sent Skjor’s head to us in butcher’s paper.” Vilkas hisses softly. “And a note. They want to trade the Dragonborn’s life to us. They’ll kill Farkas if we don’t comply.”

“Aela?” Vinci stares.

“Kodlak believes she’s dead.” The man is tired. Exhausted. It isn’t just the evening’s events; he looks like he hasn’t slept well in weeks. Vilkas grits his teeth. “It should have been me. I should have been with them.”

“You weren’t.” The Silver Hand observes.

“I wasn’t.” Vilkas says quietly.

“Why?”

“I developed an obsession.” The man answers. “With you being… someone else. Someone I knew when I was a child.”

“I’m not _Leilani.”_ Vinci snaps. She sees Vilkas tense. The woman’s eyes dim. “Sorry—I’m just—”

“You don’t have to apologize. I need to. To a lot of people.” Vilkas sighs. The man runs a hand through his dark, dark brown hair.

 _It’s already messy._ Vinci frowns. “Aside from… Aside from who we were as kids. Kids in cages,” she sucks in a breath and continues, “We don’t… really have a reason to be around the other. Vilkas. You’re a Companion and I’m a—”

“—Silver Hand.”

“Yeah.” The woman nods stiffly. “And you… Just based on that… You became obsessed with me. I don’t…” She can’t finish the sentence, so she lets it stand as it is.

Vilkas wipes his eyes. He shakes his head. “I thought… because of the catacombs. Because you knew her song. That you might be. I’m sorry.”

“Her song?” Vinci pauses.

“Leilani’s song. The one she always sung to Farkas and I. To the kids of the darkness.” Vilkas turns from her. The man hesitates, before he sucks in a breath and begins in a soft, solemn tone. “One day... we’ll be free… running through the trees…”

_Full of life. Full of life._

_“Mama!”_ Vinci calls from the window pane, pointing outside with a chubby finger. The young boy is proud to show not only his mother but also his twin the sight to be had: a wagon with a fine horse to pull it, rolling up to the family’s small house by the river.

Her blue eyes widen in awe. She stares out as her mother strides to the two’s sides. Leilani looks up and beams at the woman’s bright face and soft black hair. Her mother chuckles. _“Ah. Your uncle’s come to tell you tales of the world.”_

 _“I wanna say hi first!”_ Vinci leaps to the floor and bounds across the wooden floor panels. Leilani’s eyes follow her brother. She smiles when he struggles with the doorknob. The two’s mother crosses to the door and she gently pulls it open.

_“Look who it is. I thought you’d left me to sleep outside.”_

Her mother laughs following the words and pulls the man in for a hug. She steps aside to let him through. _“That was one time. Do you still hold that against me?”_

 _“Only when I want something. Now, who is this fine fellow?”_ The man kneels next to Vinci and bops his nose. The boy gawks and sputters while the man laughs. _“Look at that face! Can’t forget it. He’ll grow up to be a strong lad, he will.”_

 _“Leilani! Come say hi to your uncle.”_ Her mother calls. _“He’s traveled a very long way to see you and Vinci, dear.”_

The child’s uncle is a strange man with a weird name. She doesn’t remember how to say it right. The girl fumbles a moment before her cheeks dust pink in embarrassment. She holds her hands behind her back and looks down at the floor. _“Hi…”_

 _“Now, now. You’re… Leilani, was it? It is an honor to meet such a nice lass. My niece, no less!”_ The man chuckles and nods. He’s friendly, but Leilani feels nervous. She relaxes only when Vinci joins her side.

Her mother smiles. _“Why don’t you two show your uncle what you’ve been practicing?”_

 _“I don’t want to!”_ Leilani cries.

Her brother frowns. He jabs Leilani in the side. _“I do! I do! If,”_ he stops to suck in a deep breath. _“The nighttime comes… and we gotta run…”_

“Look for each other and wait for the sun,” Vinci whispers aloud. She slumps. Her gaze dims. She can’t look at Vilkas, but she knows he looks at her. The woman exhales sharply. “How did you—Where did you learn that song? How?”

Vilkas hesitates.

 _“How?”_ Vinci snaps.

“Leilani sung it to the kids of the darkness. The ones in the cages. Me and my brother were two of them,” Vilkas says quietly. “She said she learned it from her brother. Vinci.”

“I’m not—”

“I know.” The man sounds full of defeat. At her, at life, at the universe and every god inside of it.

“You find her?” A voice shouts from up a set of stairs leading to the higher Districts. “About fucking time!”

_Oblivion._ Vinci feels bile crawl up the back of her throat. She recognizes the voice. She turns and catches sight of Ria bounding down the steps to the two. Vinci attempts to ignore her, but when she attempts to pass Ria and resume her trip up to Dragonsreach, to deliver one long-overdue breastplate, the Companion shoots out an arm in front of her and growls. From further up, two Hold Guards watch on curiously.

“Not a chance,” Ria says. “We got to get to Jorrvaskr—Harbinger needs to talk to you.”

“Ria.” Vilkas calls from the stairs landing, still standing by the Gildergreen. “Vinci and I—”

“Hey— _Hey._ Don’t fucking _Ria_ me. I told you once before,” The woman looks agitated by the words alone. Her fists clench. Ria has no qualms storming the rest of the way to Vilkas and getting in his personal space. “I’m your Shield-Sister, Vilkas. And right now—I’m the Silver Hand’s babysitter.”

“...We were talking ‘bout Skjor and the others.” Vilkas sighs.

Ria grits her teeth. She spins on her heels and trots back up the stairs to Vinci’s side. “Well, I’ll take it from here. You go back to Jorrvaskr. I’ll take Vinci where Vinci wants to go. She works, you know?”

“I’ve learned,” Vilkas remarks offhandedly. “Adrienne. The Warmaiden’s?”

“Mm.” Ria nods. She eyes Vinci with deep, dark eyes. “If I remember right—Adrienne makes you run shit around? Let’s take that to _wherever_. Then you come with me to Jorrvaskr. Sound good?”

Vinci’s green eyes flicker from one Companion to the other. She stops at Vilkas. She wants to give him a look that says _we aren’t done talking._ But looks like that are _things_ and she does not know or understand most _things_. The woman exhales sharply and turns to Ria. “Alright.”


	15. disappointed again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci is taken back to jorrvaskr by ria, where the companions have gathered to discuss how to deal with the silver hand's demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be part of the last chapter but gfhjghjgfhg so it is its own chapter yay  
> some things in this chapter don't make sense  
> but that's, y'know, sheogorath for you 
> 
> if ya'll read daedraborn you will find quite a few references in here (more confetti)

It isn’t a short walk to Jorrvaskr. Ria escorts her first to Dragonsreach, where the Silver Hand apologizes to one sleepy Proventus Avenicci before bowing her head and backing away. The Companion gives her a grunt and stare until Vinci grimaces and begrudgingly agrees to tail her back to Jorrvaskr, steps soft and quiet against the cool night air in Whiterun.

The seasons have shifted and though Vinci badly misses warm summer sunshine and soft white clouds, she finds something else occupies most of her thoughts as Ria leads her through back streets and around buildings. It is not mere dislike of the Companions, for that is abundant and overflowing like a goblet of fine wine or chalice of ale. It is the length of time it takes for the duo to walk back to the mead hall. What should be a simple trip begins to drag out as clouds continue passing overhead and the sky takes on a soft red hair from the lanterns held by passing Hold Guards. Vinci frowns and looks around as she trails after Ria. “—Are you going the right way?”

“Aye. When would I lead you astray?” The woman replies calmly, with a hint of humor in the words. It is surprisingly casual, as if the two are once more friendly acquaintances and Vinci doesn’t hope the woman falls into a well.

“I’m a Silver Hand. You’re a Companion.” The sentiment has been repeated three or four times that day alone. Vinci grows weary of saying it again, again, again.

“Am I?” Ria stops mid-step. The two are in the company of dark buildings, with a long alley instead of an open street.

Vinci becomes very conscious of the lack of Hold Guards at either end. The woman stops in her stride and tenses. Her green eyes squint at Ria’s back. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you want to go?” The woman pulls free her bun and lets the long, dark hair fall free. She hums faintly. “If you could go anywhere… where would you go, my dear? Where would you want me to take you?”

The voice is not Ria’s. Vinci freezes in place and her eyes grow wide. She looks around bleakly for someone else—a Hold Guard, beggar, Vilkas, _someone_ —but the world of Whiterun feels bleak and empty. It does not even feel like Whiterun anymore. When she stares, Vinci realizes it _isn’t_ the city of Skyrim. The world has become a vastly different place: a layout of obsidian structures, fanned by a sky tinted red and home to only the most geometrically intricate and perfect formations. It is not Skyrim. As far as Vinci knows—and how she knows, how she is even _aware_ of the change is beyond herself—she can’t tell if it even belongs to Tamriel. Her shock and disbelief at the confounding circumstances becomes evidence when her mouth hangs open and no words come.

“I know… you don’t want to be here, my dear.” The woman she thought is or was or impersonated Ria turns and peers at her with a set of stunning red-brown eyes, earthy yet distinctly _Daedric_ in nature. The person is no Imperial woman, no Companion with a penchant for cursing and Vilkas’s tutelage, if anything Vinci might pin the individual or entity as being some kind of…

 _Dremora? A Daedra? A… Divines help me. What is a Dremora doing here? How did a Daedra get here?_ The Silver Hand feels goosebumps spread up and down her skin. She steps back when the stranger steps forward, until her back hits a high-rising obsidian formation and she flattens herself against it.

The Daedra cocks her head to one side. She is no longer dressed in Ria’s scaled armor, but adorned in a heaping, beautiful set of gowns that layer over the next in a madness of silks, fine linens, and endless array of buttons. In fact, the peculiar nature of the dress triggers a memory in Vinci’s head. The woman stares at the Daedra. “—You were—The vendor—With the squash. The squash. The…”

“Good, good! Your mind is still intact. Fancy that, most aren’t, ‘tis but an unfortunate side effect of entropy’s cascading grace,” the Daedra clasps her hands together. One hand wears a beautiful, ornate silk glove. The other does not, revealing the individual’s breathtakingly stunning obsidian-black skin. “I like you, you know. I really do. I think you and I… can arrange this transaction of sorts, a contract of obligations and business-y nonsense. Something of the sort. Let’s see… What was I saying? I was saying something, wasn’t I?” The woman taps her chin. She snaps two fingers and beams. “Ah, ah, yes! My dear, welcome to the _Obsidian End._ This is _the_ End of you, the End of me, an End for us is an End to be… Oh, it rhymes, it does, good! Good, good, good…”

The individual’s nonsensical linguistics both frighten and put off Vinci from engaging further conversations. She looks up and down the alleyway but becomes sickly pale at the realization both ends are now blocked off. A laugh comes from the Dremora.

“Now, why would you be needing to _leave?_ We’re getting started! You aren’t one of Sanguine’s followers, are you? No? Good. Part of me’s had a field day and a _half_ with him, let me tell you…” The Dremora walks to her and takes Vinci by the hand. The woman flinches away but the Daedra _pulls_ and Vinci finds her feet follow regardless. “This way, this way, good, good, good… Stop that, no fear, chin up! I didn’t bring you here to have two Golden Saints quarter your limbs and draw with blood. That would be _silly._ Do I look silly?”

“No?” Vinci blurts out. She trembles as the Daedra pulls her down the alleyway. She begins to shake uncontrollably when she realizes the alley doesn’t end. All around her: the rest of the world changes, takes shape, becomes animate and _alive,_ but the damn alley doesn’t change. It drags on until it is a long hallway in a graceful, heinous, _orderly_ castle with picture-perfect rooms and layouts that fit to a ‘t.’ 

She sees others around her. Some of them walk, some train, some spar with weapons so violent and vicious she has half the nerve to think whether they might be related to the Silver Hand or Companions in some way. She sees individuals in black-and-red uniforms training, guarding, _watching_ and waiting, yet to her surprise none take note or care for herself or the strange vendor waltzing around.

“This is a memory.” The vendor tells her politely. “None of them are real. Not real as in you and I, _here_ , you understand?”

“Where are you taking me?” Vinci breathes the words. She dares to think maybe, _maybe,_ this won’t end horribly for her. Maybe a _Daedra_ is just looking to torment the poor woman and not cause total catastrophe.

“I thought you would know, you know… being… _you_ … Alas. Disappointed again.” The vendor grunts.

It doesn’t make sense. Maybe the point is simply that: _nothing_ makes sense to the woman. Vinci follows even after the vendor lets go her hand. She doesn’t dare step out of place or try and make a run for it. As far as she knows, she is either mid-hallucination or she is _actually_ in another world of sorts. The latter seems preposterous, but she doesn’t know what is far-fetched and what is legitimate madness anymore. Everything could be out of the ordinary yet still be _real_. The thought terrifies her. Cold sweat breaks across her forehead, her palms, and her neck.

Part of her wishes Vilkas was there. He’s… safe. _Safer. He’s safer. Safer than this. Safer than all of this._

“Why am I here?” The Silver Hand tries the question. Her voice is but a mouse’s whisper. She feels like a mouse: tiny, fearful, useless, surrounded by wolves and lions on all sides. She hears the vendor laugh.

“Why wouldn’t you, mm? I s’pose, if you _really_ want an answer, my dear, you could look at someone else as the cause… The _activation energy_ behind this chemical reaction!” The vendor stops and clasps her hands together. She spins on her heels and inches close to the Silver Hand. “I learned that in college, once! You’ve heard of college, haven’t you? What is it, a college of _mages_ or _bards_ in this universe? But no, no, _no!_ I’ve learned of such sacred concepts and hidden mysteries in _another_ college! One… state-side, you could say? It was full of local politics opposed versus privatization lobbying but I preferred the tuition costs. At least, until my husband made me drop out! He made me a deadbeat. My only regret was not getting to cleave his face in before…” The Daedra trails off and continues walking.

Vinci has no idea what the vendor speaks of. Vinci is scared. She knows she feels scared. She feels powerless and weak and she misses a werewolf of all _things_ , even if the man has caused her to feel so many other things like heartache and heartbreak and _things, things, things_. The Silver Hand wants to curl up in a corner just thinking about how overwhelmed thinking makes her feel.

 _I’m a mess._ The woman’s gaze dim. Her feet follow the vendor for her: she does not have control over where she goes, further backing up the idea all of the horribleness is but another waking nightmare. She knows there is a Daedric Prince capable of invoking such mortifying nastiness. _Vaermina?_

“—Getting closer!” The vendor calls, whether to describe finding a location or to respond to her thoughts is not something Vinci can determine.

The Daedra leads her through a labyrinth-like maze of castle halls, chambers, and rooms. Whenever Vinci thinks the end is nigh, the vendor takes her around yet another corner, down yet another set of spiraling stairs, and through yet another door. Her feet ache. When she begins to wonder if she has died, and when she wonders if she is now in a plane of Oblivion for her life’s actions, the Daedra huffs and directs her down a set of dark, _dark_ stairs. It leads to a prison: a series of cells line the long chamber. The only source of light is magicka-charged _flames_. The sight prompts Vinci’s heart to start pounding wildly in her ears.

But not even fear can block out the stunned shock that dominates Vinci’s form when she catches sight of the individual imprisoned on the last cellblock of the left side. He is an Imperial man with deep laugh lines and the same kind of thick, unkempt dark hair that entails a picture of a laughing, joking Dragonborn. Vinci stares at the lookalike of Rune, a man muddled in a torn two-hued suit with keyhole-like scars marring his arms. Vinci begins to gag and struggle to keep down contents of her stomach when she realizes the scars on the man’s arms _move_ and squirm beneath the surface of his skin. The man looks defeated.

“…I felt sick. So I left for a bit. It’s not like _I_ don’t know what’s going to happen.” The voice is disturbingly identical to that of the vendor’s, only when Vinci looks she sees the Daedra directly alongside her. The Silver Hand stiffens at the sight of the Daedra pointing forward, where a person sits on a bench directly opposite the Imperial prisoner. Another individual stands nearby, engaged in conversation.

“Ah. Can’t blame you there,” the reply comes from the person on the bench, a Nord with deep ginger hair that is deceivingly brown in certain light, or perhaps the other way around. The man has aprosthetic leg jutting out of one pant leg. He dons dark leather armor and keeps his arms crossed but his expression friendly and aloof. The man taps the spot next to him on the bench.

Vinci watches the standing individual take a seat next to the Nord. She stares when the light of terrifying magical flames reflects enough to make out the individual’s features. The person is a Dremora, but an unusual one: she possesses disgustingly mortal characteristics. She wears mortal armor, a uniform similar to what Vinci once found on a thief’s after she and Tulle ran off a group of bandits from camp. The Dremora’s eyes holds conflicted emotions, all-too-similar to what Vinci _knows_ goes through her mind. The Dremora is not as tall as some are, nor decked with enchanted Daedric weaponry.

Vinci steps closer when the Dremora sits next to the Nord and leans back. The Dremora’s exhale is heavy and burdened. She reminds Vinci a little of Vilkas and the man’s tendency to sigh when things are too tedious or tiring. The Dremora glances at her companion and pauses, “Is that—Are you wearing Sahkriimir’s Amulet of Mara again? Underneath your shirt? _Really?_ ”

 _Sahkriimir?_ The name sounds like the language of _dov_. It is no one Vinci knows. Her brows furrow. She looks at the man in the cell. Though the Rune lookalike watches, he says nothing.

“They told me it looks good on me. _Handsome._ ” The Nord is smug about his words.

“Good Jehovah,” the Dremora begins shaking her head. Vinci wonders if the Dremora hears the words a lot. “—You two are acting like schoolkids with crushes. I think the entire universe is _well aware_ you two are involved.”

“ _And?_ I like that about Lassie—”

“What do you think?” The vendor from before pops up at Vinci’s side while the two individuals on the bench continue their discussion. It dawns on Vinci the Dremora on the bench is identical to the vendor at her side.

Vinci steps back. She sees a calm smile dawn on the vendor’s lips. The Silver Hand stares. “Why are you showing me this? Why are you showing me— _Memories?_ These are—Are—"

“My memories, yes. A part of me, actually. The part of me that was right before I became me and who I am _now._ I assure you, the gist of myself is still _me_ but the user interface has… changed, for now,” the vendor runs a hand through her black hair. She grins wickedly. “I thought you would be able to guess! You continue to disappoint, my dear.”

“Because you don’t make _sense!_ ” The Silver Hand sputters.

“Entropy does not make sense. It is the path to discord. It _is_ chaos incarnate. The natural designation of all systems in existence.” The vendor shrugs amicably. The Daedra walks to the two on the bench and snaps a finger. Time freezes across the memory, suspending it in an instant. Vinci watches the Daedra stoop low to peer at her memory’s body. “I didn’t realize my eyes were red-brown… Oh, oh, _wait._ This was… After the Shivering Isles. No, I remember now. The Skeleton Key unlocked my potential to return my power to me. Now, I wasn’t _me_ back then, but I am me now! All of this is one fruit cake of comedy!”

“…This is you. That is you. Who are you?” Vinci swallows when the Daedra straightens upright and stares.

“You really don’t know? How many times have I said _entropy_ or _madness_ in the conversation up till now? I wasn’t paying attention, so I’ll have to count later—But—Ahem, ahem, ahem! I am _Sheogorath,_ Prince of Madness and Lady of the Shivering Isles. You are free to applaud… No?” Sheogorath huffs and taps a foot. Vinci feels her hands rise of their own accord and begin to clap. Sheogorath beams and tilts her head to one side. “I am also other names, of course. Sometimes they call me _entropy_. Sometimes… some people call me _Kara._ And a very long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—I was called _Sloan_. But I am _Sheogorath._ That is me, all of me, me as I am and me as I will be now. I’m on to the big picture, the real showstopper! None of this croissants and tea bullshit.”

Sheogorath extends a hand and a staff made of intricately-carved wood manifests in it. She clutches it to her chest and spins.

“—Oh! To be in the spotlight again! The protagonist of my own fable! But my time is up. I’m a director. A Prince. Of madness, until I finish my bachelors. We’ll talk about that later. You are in quite a pickle, my dear,” the Daedra bops Vinci on the head with her staff.

Vinci shrieks and throws herself backward, nearly tripping in the process _. “Don’t_ —Touch me!”

“I didn’t, my Wabbajack did. Technicalities. Stop screaming. I don’t listen to death metal.” Sheogorath’s rambles go right over Vinci’s head. The Prince crosses her arms. “Can’t you be like one of those Hallmark movies? I say words, you understand shit, and we go about our business a bunch of white fairytale goers? Kiss, kiss, a Christmas miracle! …No? No. Fine. I _was_ going to go through this conversation, make it a whole life lesson about something to do with not _jumping the gun_ on your initial reactions to shit—But you don’t want that. You don’t want to listen.”

She really doesn’t. She doesn’t know or care about the scene frozen in time, the madness of the memory, or even Sheogorath herself. The woman wants to go home. She wants to find a nice, small place to squeeze into and hide. She wants to be Vinci. She _is_ Vinci.

“You don’t have a home. You know that.” Sheogorath is blunt now, not an ounce of the whimsical nonsense she spouted before.

Vinci looks to the side. “Take me back to Whiterun.”

“I will. But you’ll regret this.” Sheogorath hums. “We are at odds, me and you.”

“What could I’ve done to piss off a Daedric Prince?!” The woman exhales sharply. She doesn’t mean to blurt the words but she feels ready to piss herself and break down in tears if she doesn’t direct some of the emotions _somewhere._

“You decided to make a claim on one of the _few_ _fucking individuals part of me wants to protect,”_ Sheogorath snaps the words. Her fists clench and her eyes blaze with a glowing white light. “I lost _everything_ becoming myself! _Everything saving them all!_ And I—” the Daedra’s hands grapple her shoulders, fingers tight and piercing even over the Silver Hand’s clothes. “Will not let another _fucking Prince_ go around and ruin everyone I saved!”

Vinci snaps upright with a gasp. Her eyes are bloodshot. She can feel her limbs stir as if just being awoken from a deep, rousing sleep of pins and needles. Her legs falter and she struggles to stand, finding out _why_ a moment later: she sits in a chair in Jorrvaskr’s mead hall, tucked against the long table with Companions scattered around it in one haphazard display. Ria sits to her right, propped up on a forearm against the table and looking surprisingly engaged and focused. When Vinci’s green eyes trail the table, she finds other familiar faces: that of the older Vignar at the far end, Kodlak on the opposite head of the table, Athis and Torvar next to the other across from her and Ria, and Vilkas and Njada sitting as a duo on the far right closest to Kodlak.

 _He’s sitting with Njada._ Vinci stares. She sees Njada’s eyes on her. She also sees Vilkas’s eyes on her. The woman feels her face drain of color. When she looks, she sees every individual in the room watches her. Even Kodlak’s gaze is firm on the Silver Hand.

“How long have I been here?” She asks softly.

“What? An hour?” Ria blurts out the response. The Imperial woman turns to her and squints. Ria’s gaze widens. “Were you—”

 _“Was I talking?”_ Vinci breathes through clenched teeth. “Did I—Did I say anything?! To any of you?”

“No.” It is Kodlak who speaks. The gray-haired man eyes Vignar at the other end of the table. The Harbinger rises from his seat and clears his throat. “You didn’t, Vinci.”

“You’re lying to me,” Vinci’s mind swarms. The woman’s knuckles go white from how hard she grips the armrests of her seat. She shoves it backward and makes to stand but Ria is on her feet in a second with a hand on her shoulder. Vinci snaps her head at her. _“Don’t touch me!_ ”

“He isn’t lying,” the Companion assures her. “We’ve been—Going over what’s written on the paper. The… butcher’s paper.”

The sorrow reflects in Ria’s tone. It is convincing enough to calm Vinci’s mounting paranoia. The woman exhales sharply. She finds her heart rate is through the roof, her heart blasting and pounding away diligently in her ears to the point she starts looking to see if it is on the ground near her chair or at her table placemat. Vinci slowly sits back in her chair. Her gaze dim; she stares at her lap. “…Oh. I… I lost time. I’m sorry.”

She hates the fact she feels obligated to apologize, but she feels pressured with so many eyes on her. It makes her despise the Companions more. She doesn’t know why she agreed to go to Jorrvaskr, aside from maybe the fact it would be easier to walk than to have Companions forcibly drag her kicking and screaming into the mead hall. Vinci clenches her eyes shut. She refuses to say anything more, even when Kodlak inquires if there is anything she wants to share. As far as she knows, she had another vivid hallucination.

 _Was it?_ A thought in her head whispers. Vinci shudders. She wants to throw up. All the food on the table is repulsive to see. She swallows the bile at the back of her throat and listens as Kodlak goes on.

“—Jarl Balgruuf the Greater has… _offered_ to aid us in this matter.” The Harbinger tilts his head to one side. Vinci watches his eyes, noting how Kodlak is quick to sweep the entire hall’s occupants for reactions.

Vignar grunts in response, the old man shifting in his seat as he replies, “That will turn it political, Kodlak. You know we are not—”

“No, no. We aren’t. You are correct, my friend.” Kodlak nods. “But this is not just a Companion, Vignar. Rune is the Dragonborn. His safety concerns more than the Companions. If he is truly the one to defeat the one we call _World-Eater_ … it is imperative the Silver Hand does not keep him in their grasp. They may not be able to kill him, but there are fates worse than death.”

“You think they would do that to spite the Companions?” The dark elf, Athis, comments dryly. His fingers drum the edge of the table. “Damn all of Skyrim?”

“Perhaps they believe themselves capable of stopping Alduin without a Dragonborn. The Silver Hand is an offshoot of the Vigilants of Stendarr, only… more twisted. Corrupt. Ironic, truly.” Kodlak muses aloud. His eyes momentarily flicker to Vinci’s, but the woman ignores him.

“Question.” Njada’s voice surprises Vinci. She watches the stoic-faced woman sit up and huff. “Exactly how we gonna get _Farkas_ out of this mess? _Alive?_ ”

Next to her, Vinci sees Vilkas’s entire body tense. The man is quiet.

Njada continues. “If we trade for Rune—Then what? We got Rune back. Big deal. How we going to address the _Farkas_ problem? The Silver Hand won’t have reason to keep him around.”

“Ah. Ah.” Kodlak nods. The man seems pleased someone mentioned it.

Perhaps someone mentioned it before, Vinci doesn’t know, she cannot remember anything past coming to in a chair after a Prince of Madness yelled things that make no sense to her.

The Harbinger strokes his beard. His eyes are wise, deceiving and manipulative all wrapped up in the charm and wisdom of a man who knows how to play his strengths. “A strong observation, Njada. That is why I am considering the Jarl’s offer. Gallow’s Rock demonstrated the Silver Hand has more forces than… anticipated. We are outnumbered. Showing up and trading for the Dragonborn would be futile in our efforts to recover Farkas. But I think,” Kodlak’s eyes narrow. “No, I _believe_ if we were to give the impression of a trade, Njada… We could use the Jarl’s men to track the Silver Hand back to their encampment.”

“An ambush is not honor.” Vignar notes.

“No, but if it will save my brother—” Vilkas interrupts. The man exhales softly. “I would trade honor for Farkas’s life.”

“He is a trusted member of the Circle. A true Companion.” Kodlak shuts his eyes. “Do not forsake your honor yet, Vilkas. If you are smart, you will not be part of the raiding party.”

The werewolf looks like he was just shot in the heart by a silver arrow. He stares at Kodlak, eyes wide. “Harbinger—”

“I agree with the Harbinger.” Ria clears her throat. She does not meet Vilkas’s gaze. “Vilkas, you should be the one to hand her off. Keep ambushes for people in _light_ armor.”

Vinci pauses. She doesn’t mean to, but the words slip out. “Hand who off?”

“You.” Ria replies matter-of-factly.

Eyes in the room turn back to the Silver Hand. Vinci stares at the Companion at her right. Ria looks like she feels a remorseful at the words, but only a _little_. Vinci knows better than to trust a Companion to give two shits about the fate of a Silver Hand. Her face drains of color. “Me? That’s what—"

“It is their demand. I read the note at the start of this, Vinci, though I understand you may not have been able to listen during the… time you lost.” Kodlak interrupts any further discussion. The Harbinger offers a smile that is nothing close to comforting. “But you have nothing to fear. It is part of our plan, Vinci. You will not stay in their company long.”

“You’re going to hand me over to those people?” She feels her eyes water. The thought scares her. She doesn’t want to go back to the cell. It has only been months, but she has tasted _freedom_ and freedom entices her. Even if she is forced to deal with the Companions, she would put up with them any day for the sake of having control of her autonomy and livelihood.

“Only for a time. A brief time.” Vignar grunts. “Though we could cut her loose, I reckon. She’s done nothing to help us. Kodlak.”

“She is not our prisoner, Vignar,” the Harbinger points out with surprising gentleness. Kodlak tilts his head. “She wants to live her own life. Not as Silver Hand or Companion, but as of her own person. I do not intend to treat a person as a pawn.”

 _But you have. You disgusting and manipulative man._ Vinci clenches her eyes shut. _You want me to stay here because I knew Vilkas and Farkas as a kid. You want me to stay here so they can figure their past out. You don’t care about me. You don’t see me as my own person._

When Vinci opens her eyes and looks around the mead hall, she sees a few interesting things. She sees Torvar pouring what must be his fourth or fifth glass of mead, she sees Vignar’s disgruntled squint, she sees a surprisingly gleam of softness from Ria directed at _her_ , and she sees Vilkas’s pale brown eyes. He is not staring at her. His gaze is distant and detached, a mess lost in the thoughts plaguing his mind. Vinci frowns as she watches him. She notes that he does not lean against Njada or brush his hand against the Companion’s. She sees sweat on Vilkas’s forehead and finds he frequently fidgets or shuts his eyes as Kodlak goes on and talks about arrangements to be made with Balgruuf.

Vinci wonders if Vilkas feels scared often. She wonders if the man has as much of the past looming over his shoulders as she does. She wonders if he feels content as he is, or if he is the same sort of paranoid, jumpy mess of a person she is around new people.

When the man does catch her gaze, she stills and stares. She finds his eyes are wet and heavy with too many emotions to discern. His dark hair is a terrible mess on his head. But it is the bags beneath his eyes that tug and pull at Vinci’s heartstrings; she can’t help but pause and question if he is as afraid of sleep as she is. _Do you have the same nightmares? Do you have waking dreams full of terrible sights, sounds, things? Do you fear shutting your eyes like I do? Fear rest as I do? The darkness as I do? Do you feel safe, Vilkas? Safe from… everything._

“When is the trade happening?” Vinci finds herself interrupting Kodlak’s words—something to do about the number of men to ask for—and not giving a single damn of it all. She frowns and peers at the Harbinger. “Kodlak Whitemane. When did they ask for me?”

“—A week from now.” The Harbinger’s brows furrow.

Vinci pushes her chair back. She brushes Ria’s hand from her shoulder and ignores the stares she gets when she rises. She averts her gaze to the side. “I’m going to go sit in front of the Skyforge and stare at it.”

“What?” Ria’s words surely echo the sentiment of others in the room.

The Silver Hand grits her teeth. “I said—I am going to go _sit_ in front of the _Skyforge_ and _stare at it._ Is that a problem, Companion?”

“You should stay,” Ria remarks dryly. “We’re not done talking about—”

“I don’t want to hear about your plan to save Farkas.” Vinci snaps. Her bite is misplaced, but she lets it linger. She is frustrated at the confinements of the mess hall; she needs fresh air and a place to think. The Silver Hand exhales slowly and turns away. “Whatever it is I have to do to help—I’ll do it. Okay? To help _Farkas._ But I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be a Companion. Frankly,” the woman pauses. She looks over her shoulder and glances across the room, stopping at Vilkas. _“I don’t care_ about what happens to _most_ of you—"

_Most of you._

“—but I care about Farkas—”

_Are you most, Vilkas?_

“I’ll help him. But I’m not a Companion. I will _never_ be a Companion. Don’t treat me as one.” Vinci exhales sharply. “After this—I’m going back to my job. I’m going to smith for Adrianne and her husband. And I don’t want any of you bothering me again. I don’t want to be involved in this.”

The mead hall is quiet, save for Athis drumming fingers on the edge of the table closest his seat. Vinci ignores the sound of Ria pushing her chair back and excusing herself as the Silver Hand turns and trudges to the doors of the mead hall. She pushes them open and slips out into the cold night air of Whiterun, where a sea of stars lays stretched across the sky in a beautiful harmonious display of the cosmos. Vinci’s eyes dim as she stares. She says nothing when Ria joins her, knowing the woman is bound by obligation or order or _something_ to keep an eye on her. She doesn’t say a word when she turns and treks around Jorrvaskr’s walls and up the stairs leading to the Skyforge.

She makes a point to sit directly in front of the Skyforge, ignoring Ria’s stare. The large silver mass is the only silver that can withstand the sun now that the Gildergreen is dead. As the night creeps on, the woman lets the mess of her mind fall into an entropy-fueled disarray, a tangle of different thoughts that should lead to agitation or panic. None comes, nothing but the weight of exhaustion at everything that is her life. 

Vinci’s eyelids droop. _I need to talk to Adrianne in the morning._


	16. trust a companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a few last-minute things to do before the companions and the silver hand meet to exchange prisoners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys  
> its almost 1am  
> im still sick  
> not sure when next chapter will be  
> but this is a chapter i am happy to have done 
> 
> tw there's a brief mention of menstruation  
> and also a tw there's heavy implications of past child abuse  
> and of child death / murder  
> and of cannibalism

There is something to be said about a person going out of their way to treat one normally when the world is awful and when nothing seems capable of fixing itself. That is how Vinci feels toward the Warmaiden’s owner, both Adrianne Avenicci and her husband Ulfberth War-Bear. The world feels awful for many reasons. Most of it involves the impending trade between the Companions and the Silver Hand. Some of it involves the mess of things that is the result of a werewolf that has deep roots in her past. A little bit of the chaos is from Vinci’s own hallucinations and nightmares, what with vivid, horrifying flashbacks to the past, glimpses of worlds that make no sense to those of Nirn, and the persistent emotions accompanying all the above.

The world is, in fact, awful.

She tries not to think about it in the days counting down to the trade. She knows it will happen. She has agreed to offer her life for the legendary hero of Skyrim, Rune Dragonborn, and Vinci will willingly do so regardless of Companion involvement. But she fears what comes after. It is the anticipation that lurks and bubbles in her anxieties, fueling meek tendencies and a reluctance to be near others as the date draws closer.

The Harbinger of the Companions claims he will not let the Silver Hand “keep possession” of her. She despises the man, and she despises the fact she now relies on him to keep his word, because she is truly a pawn in Kodlak Whitemane’s hands and she can do nothing to change that. Vinci acknowledges the helplessness of it all. She must, because if she does not then she can’t focus on finishing last-minute deliveries Adrianne shoves her way before she is passed off faction-to-faction like a fishing lure.

It helps, in a way. Vinci thinks about the blacksmith and her husband constantly in the nights of that week. She does not reside at the Warmaiden’s as the last days trickle by; the woman returns to sleeping in the whelps hall of Jorrvaskr, where Ria constantly hounds her when she isn’t asleep or working. Vinci values how Adrianne and Ulfberth provide a semblance of normativity. She craves it, the closest thing to something routine, to something _safe_ that she has given how detached she is with everyone else in the mead hall and in Whiterun overall. The woman does every job Adrianne asks of her. It does not matter whether it runs past sunset or if it involves scrubbing down and grinding off the muck of a disgustingly-treated blade. Vinci does it, and she does it _well,_ because it is something safe to her in a world that is terribly awful.

“When you get back,” Adrianne tells her two days before the trade is set to happen. “I expect you to make up the lost time.”

Though Vinci knows the blacksmith speaks half in jest and half seriously, she smiles all the same. It is a simple sentence that means the world to the Silver Hand. “You think I will come back, then?”

“If you don’t—I’ll find you myself. You got the fastest feet in Whiterun. Customers enjoy the deliveries.” Adrianne retorts.

There is another meaning in the Imperial woman’s words: she wants Vinci back. Others want Vinci back. Others _hope_ she comes back to Whiterun, to a meager helping of a normal life she desperately yearns for. Vinci hopes the same, too, even though she does not believe it. The world feels too terrible and ominous for her to remain optimistic.

For the sake of easing _some_ of her anxieties, Vinci finds herself at Arcadia’s Cauldron the day before the Companions are to take her and hand her over to her former allies. The black-haired woman stands in the doorway a long while before she decides to push the door open and enter. Arcadia is busy with another customer, a woman Vinci does not know, but the Silver Hand does not mind waiting. It is better to wait than wander outside and risk Ria tracking her down again. The latter is too persistent in her goal of _protecting_ and _babysitting_ Vinci, as if the woman is no more than a mere toddler teetering about. She is not a _child._ She does not need to be watched and guarded like an infant around potions. She is a lady with three decades to her name, and though she isn’t sure her exact age, she imagines she is around thirty-five.

 _Thirty-five years and already this tired._ The woman thinks with a frown.

Her green eyes wait for Arcadia to finish talking to her customer. When the shopkeeper finishes fetching a collection of potions and packaging the neatly in a bag, Arcadia finally turns her attention to Vinci. The shopkeeper nods and smiles at the woman. “Ah. That time of the month, my friend? I will have you know—my prices have changed. I have not seen Aela for a time, so I thought best to tell each of you Companions who comes in directly.”

“I am not a Companion.” Vinci repeats the sentiment, though she knows Arcadia either does not care or does not believe it. The latter rattles off a familiar spiel about sending a bill to Jorrvaskr before stepping into the back room and emerging with a vial of blue brew. Vinci pauses and tilts her head. “Is this one new?”

“An updated recipe, but it will work all the same. I know my way around the alchemy laboratory, _especially_ when it involves reproductive organs.” Arcadia’s matter-of-factly statement would normally derive some fluster from the Silver Hand.

She is too tired to do more than nod. Vinci manages a half-smile in gratitude, though she knows one day Arcadia really will start sending bills to Jorrvaskr. _Or invoices, as Rune called it._

Having a potion to circumnavigate the physical and psychological effects of menstruation helps a little. Vinci downs the potion and finds it has no flavor, a testament to Arcadia’s alchemy mastery. The woman spends the rest of the day’s hours helping Adrianne pick through ores. Adrianne does not give her jobs for the last hour, merely works near her and talks the whole time about the things she needs to consider if she wants to pursue smithing as a career rather than a hobby. The Imperial woman’s words are soothing for Vinci’s soul. She smiles faintly even when _Magnus_ begins to descend to the horizon line, wrapping the world of Skyrim in an autumnal darkness. When Adrianne at last begins cleaning up, Vinci makes to step in and help.

“—No, no. No. You enjoy the night. Sky is clear; stars are pretty. You want to sleep before you move tomorrow.” The woman states before shooing Vinci away.

Vinci does not go by the Gildergreen on the way back to Jorrvaskr.

She sits in the mead hall a time, off on the side with a plate of Tilma’s bread rolls, while Companions ready packs, check gear, and discuss travel plans for the morning. Vinci is told no less than five times to be ready at the _brink_ of dawn. She almost snaps at Ria when the woman begins rattling off the departure hour for the fifth time, but she holds her tongue. Vinci is not in a mood to quarrel or squabble back and forth. Her mind is heavy, her heart is heavy, her soul is heavy and the _world_ itself feels like one giant weight tearing her through the floor. If there was a hole to hide in, she might seek it out and drop herself there for a few hours.

 _If only._ Vinci is responsible enough to know not to run away from this. It is not just her, after all. It is Rune. It is Farkas. It is… people she does care about. She can admit that much safely, without her mind jumping to conclusions and snapping at her to _run, run, run._

Though she tries to sleep, the woman finds sleep does not agree with her. Even after a cup of mead, the alcohol does little to ease her nerves. She gives up after an hour of tossing and turning in the whelps hall, on what must be the world’s most uncomfortable cot. The woman quietly rises to her feet, looks for Ria and, after confirming the latter has fallen asleep sitting next to the doorway of the room, quietly slips from the downstairs living quarters. She fits on shoes and makes for outside the mead hall. True to Adrianne’s word: the sky is clear, not a speck of clouds are to be seen, and stars litter the expanse of the sky like Aetherius itself pokes through and breathes.

It is dark enough for her to see silver shapes and forms. She sees the larger ones: passing Hold Guards, flying birds, and the occasional rabbit, all of which give her headaches. Vinci decides to turn to the one silver mass that does not spur her migraines. She finds the steps to the Skyforge and climbs them to the top, greeting the unmanned forge with soft eyes and a tired smile. She decides to sit near the workbench adjacent it. Her night wear is thin, but the blouse and breeches are enough to keep the chills of the night from being too cold. The woman feels surprisingly relaxed when she settles against the workbench. The breeze is just crisp enough, the sky is a sight to behold, and she can fix her dead green eyes on the forge to her right.

When she looks: she sees the pulsating silver, practically beating to the tune of a heart. It reminds her of the Gildergreen. She takes care not to touch it, lest the forge’s silver die too. Vinci admires it from where she sits in the darkness. The sight is truly something, even if it is _something_ she has never understood in her time in Whiterun.

“Will I come back to you?” She asks softly.

The forge does not respond. She does not see the silver mass change, nor does she expect it to. She wonders, in part, if it is one of those things that simply _is_ of its own essence. It has its own life she may not understand, but that does not mean it is not there. Something about that thought comforts her, too. She almost reaches a hand out to the forge, but she snaps back at the last second and mentally scolds herself for thinking that way.

Somewhere nearby, she hears a door open and shut. The creak of the wood reminds her distinctly of Jorrvaskr’s back doors. It takes a moment for Vinci to realize it _is_ the back doors of the mead hall. The woman tenses. _I won’t get in trouble. I won’t get in trouble. I came out here to breathe. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t…_

She still feels nervous. _Not safe._

She wants to hide, but she doesn’t, because even if her emotions say one thing her mind knows she is not in the wrong for sitting next to the Skyforge. Perhaps Ria will cuss her out in the morning, but Vinci does not care what Ria wants or says.

 _But it will make an annoying horse ride._ Vinci frowns. _Should I say something to her?_

The woman slowly crawls on her hands and knees to the bluff edge. She peeks over and out, where she catches sight of a figure in the outdoor common grounds. Thanks to the clear skies and light of stars, she easily makes out the features that are distinctly _not_ Ria’s. The woman tenses.

It reminds her too much of the Sleeping Giant Inn, where she caught a glimpse of the man and his brother in civilian clothes. She figured he did not sleep in a full set of armor, but the woman once wondered whether he slept with a shirt and breeches or just the latter. Such a silly question has its answer. She can see the curve of the shirt on his form, run tight over muscles. He doesn’t have a coat or blanket with him. If she did not know he was a Nord, she might wonder if the man sought to be that cold on purpose. But he is a Nord: a Nord that holds his head in his hands and cries softly.

The sight is unexpected. He is not a boy anymore, but for a second, she cannot help but see him as such. He looks terribly vulnerable. Anyone in a mask could easily swoop by and snatch him away. Even after all the things she has struggled with and continues to struggle with as result of him—the thought still displeases her. She does not like the idea of him upset. She does not like the idea of him crying. She despises it, in fact, almost as much as she hates Kodlak Whitemane.

 _But you’re a Companion. And I’m a Silver Hand. And…_ Vinci’s gaze dims. “I’m Vinci.”

It doesn’t dawn on her she’s uttered the words until she realizes the man’s pale brown eyes have turned to her. She freezes in place, questioning why she ever dared to think thoughts in the first place. Vinci stares at the Companion for a long minute, where nothing but the occasional breeze causes any noise between the two.

 _CLANG._ The Skyforge thunders once behind her, causing the woman to shriek and jump to the side. She staggers backward and fumbles to her feet, eyes going wide and returning to the forge’s silver mass. She sees no evidence of anything having moved or changed, but she _knows_ the sound came from there. Vinci’s heart jumps in her ears and she stares at the Skyforge in disbelief.

 _You did that._ She accuses the forge. The forge gives no defense, nor does it have time to before footsteps come up the stairs. Vinci’s face drains of color. She doesn’t need to look to know who it is, because the rest of Whiterun sleeps, save for a few guards and a werewolf.

“Vilkas.” She says quietly. The woman returns to sit near the workbench, hands continuing to tremble from the Skyforge’s brazen display of life. She ignores the look she gets. She knows he looks, and it is a look that is sincerely curious and worried, but it is not one she has an answer for.

“…Vinci,” the man’s greeting is soft and low, primarily out of respect for the Companions who rest in Jorrvaskr nearby. His brows furrow. “What are you…?”

“Staring at the Skyforge.” The Silver Hand mumbles. She draws her knees to her chest. “…I don’t like it right now.”

She is relieved that the man continues to stand rather than sit. He isn’t taking her space by sitting. He isn’t stirring thoughts by sitting. A standing Vilkas is easier to deal with than a sitting Vilkas, especially at the current hour.

“Why’s that?” The man asks.

“You didn’t hear it?” Vinci grimaces. She shuts her eyes. “It was loud as thunder. As one of Eorlund’s hammer strikes.”

“I didn’t.” Vilkas frowns. She can just make out the mess he calls hair, practically a mop on his head at this point. She wonders when he combed it last.

 _Does he even comb it?_ The Silver Hand doesn’t ask.

“Why’re you out here, Vinci?” The question is direct. It reeks of exhaustion, of being too tired to dance around words.

The woman pauses. She could give a lot of answers. Vague, misleading, or even a blatant lie. But like Vilkas, she too is tired. She is so, so tired. The woman shrugs weakly. She looks to the side. “—Probably the same as you. No,” Vinci hesitates. She can do better than that, especially when it is so blaringly obvious to both people present. “Definitely the same. Being afraid of tomorrow. Why else would you cry?”

She can see the tension that comes over his form. The man’s shoulders slump. He looks to the side. “You aren’t wrong.”

“Am I usually wrong?” She frowns.

“I… don’t know.” Vilkas sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, then two. “I don’t know. Not anymore.”

“Me neither.” She lowers her head to her knees, resting her forehead against her legs.

“Is that why you come here? Staring at the Skyforge. You do it when you don’t know?”

She does not look up. Her voice is muffled. “—Where else would I go?”

“Cyrodiil?” It sounds so obscenely sincere as a suggestion that the woman feels herself snort.

“I don’t know anything about Cyrodiil, Vilkas. I barely know enough about Skyrim. About Whiterun. How would I survive a day in Cyrodiil? In any land in Tamriel but this one?” Vinci asks. She lifts her head up and sees him thinking. The woman blinks. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Couldn’t think of an answer anyways.” Vilkas frowns. He looks from her to the stairs. The man is hesitant. “I’ll... go.”

His footsteps carry him to the top of the stairs. He stops two stairs in, hand against a rock to steady his sleepy body while he looks back at her. The woman frowns at him. She sees a lot in his eyes, but she cannot figure out any of the specifics. The only thing she hears clearly is sincere gratitude when the man says, “…Vinci… What you’re doing tomorrow. For Rune. For… Farkas.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She states quietly.

“But I,” the man catches himself. He looks to the side and bites his lip. A heavy silence follows before Vilkas finally adds on, “Thanks for... Helping. I don’t have the right to ask a thing of you. But it means more than Aetherius itself. My brother’s… He’s all I have left.”

Vinci pauses. She can make out the tone. It reminds her of him when he was a child. Her gaze dims, “Why do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Vilkas?”

She watches his eyes grow big. The pale brown irises hold far more depth to them than they let on, wrapped underneath the man’s carapace and façade of composure. He has made his own walls over the years. She can see the layers peek through. There is a scared child underneath there, somewhere, and it terrifies and worries her to see how much it reminds her of herself.

“I promised. When we were kids.” Vilkas shuts his eyes. The man shakes his head. “When our… _father_ saved us… I wasn’t gonna let anyone hurt us like that again. At least—Not him. Not my brother. Not Farkas.” He wipes his eyes.

“You made a promise you couldn’t keep.” Vinci observes softly.

“I did. But I swore to it. I _swore_ to it. I needed something to keep me going. After… Leilani died… I wanted to give up—"

 _Leilani died._ She’s told herself the words many times. In her mind, the thought is clear: Leilani is dead, deceased, gone and taken from the world at an age far too young to ever be right. But when she hears them, her head snap up and she stares at the werewolf. She stares with shock that someone says the thing she struggles to drill into her head.

Vilkas hisses softly. “I couldn’t keep _her_ safe—I couldn’t keep my promise to her—I thought—At least—At least I could do _something._ I could protect my brother. I could protect him. I failed. _I failed!”_ He begins to curse, never loud enough to yell but loud enough for her to hear each distinct word and the grief behind them.

She can see the tears. He tries hard to hide them, to wipe them away or look another direction or clench his eyes shut when they fall. She sees each of them. She’s seen them before, and she knows when she sees them again. “You were a child. Vilkas.”

“ _Then_ I became an adult—And I still—I couldn’t—I can’t do anything,” the man holds his head in his hands. He hisses again, clawing at his mop of hair. The man weeps openly, unable or unwilling to hold back the tears any longer. “They have my brother. They… Even if we raid their camp. They have Farkas. They’ll kill him. They _will kill him_ when they realize what’s happening! I—I _can’t_ stop them! I can’t keep them from killing my brother!”

He is full of pain. She sees it clearly: pain caked between his shells, smoothing over each brick in the walls constructed around himself. He is full of crumbling attempts to mitigate the past, to try and cope with what haunts him by building on a doomed foundation. She knows what its like. It is not mead and hunts and fun; it is long nights, restlessness, and constant tears at what a person cannot control. It is pain, and it is pain, and it is pain on pain on pain until one wants nothing more than to drown their spirits in the hopelessness of the world and everything awful it holds.

“One day, we’ll be free, running through the trees—" It doesn’t register the words come from her lips until she’s already into the first verse, voice soft and shy. “Full of life. Full of life. If the nighttime comes. And we got to run. Look for each other, wait for the sun.”

His eyes are full of tears, but he stops and stares at her.

She exhales slowly. “—When I got to go. If it is dark. If you’re alone. Look to the stars where the spirits call home. You’ll find me there. Looking for our song. In the trees. In the trees—"

“—one day we’ll be free,” Vilkas breathes.

“You know it.” Vinci says quietly. She rises to her feet and brushes her pants off.

The Companion falls silent. He wipes his eyes and exhales sharply. “…That song…”

“I’m not Leilani.” She reiterates.

The man’s face falls. Vilkas’s arms drop to his side. “Why can’t you be?”

She stills. Her hand rises to her neck of its own accord, tracing the long scar that begins at her ear and goes deep into the fold of her neck. She shuts her eyes. It feels like just a day ago. “Leilani is dead.”

“So is Vinci.”

She grits her teeth. “That doesn’t bring Leilani back!”

“Nor does it bring back Vinci,” Vilkas says.

“But I want it to.” She whispers. Vinci’s eyes well with tears. “I want it to. I want my brother back.”

She’s too tired to crawl into the corners of her mind. There’s nothing to hide behind, only a Skyforge and a werewolf for company. She is so tired. The last bit of her energy went into trying to sing the pain away. Even if for just a moment—she didn’t want Vilkas to be in pain. She doesn’t want to see him cry. She doesn’t want him to suffer like she did.

She doesn’t hear him say anything, so she looks up and pauses. The man’s face has drained of color. His eyes are wet, but he has yet to begin crying again even if tears are bound to fall. She does not know what she expects him to say, but when he speaks, his words carry pain. “What did they do to you?”

“My mother took me to the butcher.”

She hears him curse before she hears the footsteps walk to her. His arms feel so good and right she can’t help but lean into his embrace. Everything about him feels as safe as she remembers him. She can feel and hear his sobs when he—the werewolf, the man, the boy, _Vilkas_ —begins to cry into her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You were a child.” She whispers.

“I wanted,” he draws back. He has wrinkles across his forehead, a sign of stress of years lost to the late nights and terrors haunting his dreams. Vilkas stares down at her. “—I wanted to protect you. I _tried_ so hard to—"

“You couldn’t have,” Leilani’s eyes soften. Her hands come up to cradle his face, the mark on the back of her right palm visible in the starlight.

“I wanted to.” Vilkas whispers.

“I wouldn’t let you.” She reminds him. Her gaze is forlorn. “I wanted you two to live.”

“I wanted _you_ to live! I wanted,” it’s the boy that talks, the one hidden beneath Vilkas’s exterior. He weeps tears that are long overdue, of a mourning that should have happened twenty years past. “—I wanted all of us to escape. Together. Together!”

It’s the girl that answers, one fearful and meek and a mess of wounds that never healed. “You two got out. Just knowing—That—Makes me happy.”

“Can’t you be selfish for once?!” He clutches her tightly. He’s scared she will leave again.

Leilani’s green eyes well with tears. “I’m not good at that.”

“Then be better. Please,” Vilkas pleads. “Be better at being selfish.”

“I can’t. _I’m dead.”_ The girl whispers. This time, when the boy begins to cry, she cries with him. She shuts her eyes and leans against him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—Don’t say that. Not right now.” Vilkas whispers. “Please. Not yet. Not yet. I don’t want to lose you. Not yet.”

A weak, muffled exhale comes from the girl. She shakes her head. “You already did. You already did—So—"

“I don’t want to lose this one,” when the child of twenty years ago draws back, he is both Vilkas of the cages and Vilkas of the Companions. He looks down at her, the streaks of tears on his cheeks reflecting under the light. “I don’t want to lose this you.”

“I’m right here, aren’t I?” Leilani whispers softly. Her hand rests on the man’s chest. “No matter what I call myself. I’m with you—”

She exhales softly when the man leans down and kisses her. His fingers are soft but firm, warm but safe, and his grip on her is gentle but supporting. She feels him draw back. His eyes are terribly vulnerable, a gaping wound leading to his soul. _Leilani_ , and _Vinci_ , and everyone she _is_ and _was_ and _may become,_ peers into the eyes of the Vilkas of the cages and Vilkas of the Companions. The boy of twenty years ago and the man of right now are the same pained person, desperate for the same thing. She feels a hand slide into her hair and the woman breathes out slowly.

"You don't know how much," the man mumbles softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. It brings heat to her face. "How much you _changed_ me. My life. My brother's. By Mara—I owe everything to you."

"I'm not Leilani anymore." Vinci says softly. She rests her hands at his shirt. Her voice is just above a whisper as she goes on, "I'm not... The girl in the darkness."

"You're not," He pulls her into his arms and presses his lips against hers, seizing every ounce of air from her lungs. She can feel the raw emotion behind each one, stirring and growing in strength, each kiss, each decadent second the two are together. Vilkas draws back enough to look into her eyes. His own, pale-brown gaze is extraordinarily soft. "But whoever you are _now_ —You matter to me."

His free hand lays over one of hers. The woman looks at the two's entwined hands. She looks back at Vilkas. Her eyes begin to water, a new streak of tears falling down her face. She feels the walls wash away with the rest of the world when the man wipes her tears. She feels the layers between her and the universe dissipate. Every emotion of the past comes pouring out in a surge of unspoken feelings. She lets him wrap her up in his arms and rest his forehead against hers. There are twenty years of pain to weep over, words never said, and history to mourn, but neither do more than breathe for a long moment. Her eyes shut and she listens to the sound of her heart in her ears. It thuds loudly, reminding her she is still alive, that she is with him, and that she is not alone. _I'm not..._

"What happens now?" She whispers. "Vilkas."

The man tenses under her hands as they caress his jawline and cheeks. "It's up to you. What you want is what I want."

"Njada," the woman mumbles. She feels him draw back. She sees the shame in his eyes. Her gaze hardens. "I don't want to hear that again."

Vilkas exhales softly. "It will never happen again."

"Promise?" The Silver Hand's eyes remain wet and dreary.

"I swear by it." The Companion whispers. "By Mara herself, I'll do right by you this time—If you want me."

Vinci's green eyes soften. "I do."

When his lips find hers again, she hiccups and presses her body against his. It invokes the same closeness, the need for comfort, for safety, for warmth and proximity of another. She needs him at her side. He matters. He matters so much. She cannot forget him or the safety he provokes. Her hands entangle in his hair as the man gingerly caresses her cheeks. Both are breathless by the time either break for air. Vinci exhales and wraps her arms around him.

“Tomorrow will come.” Vilkas whispers softly. He kisses her again when he sees her hesitancy. He kisses her when she struggles to find words to speak. She shuts her eyes and kisses him when she wants to be sure he is there in the flesh and not just another hallucination.

“We’ll get Rune back.” The Silver Hand says against his lips. “And your brother. We will.”

“We will,” He repeats on hers.

She knows better than to trust a Companion. But for a moment, Vinci can’t help but believe him.


	17. not unpredictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas and vinci talk through the hours leading to dawn. before they can leave with the rest of the companions to meet the silver hand, there's a few people vilkas speaks with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW this chapter covers a lot of stuff!  
> -when vinci and vilkas are talking there is heavy implications of past sexual assault  
> -when kodlak and vilkas are talking at the end there is talk about a rape that took place in the past  
> -there is talk about pregnancy   
> -and murder   
> -and murder of a kid  
> -and implications of cannibalism

_Leilani is dead,_ the woman had told him.

 _That doesn’t bring Leilani back,_ the woman had said.

 _I want my brother back,_ the woman had whispered, and the awareness of _who_ she is had come crashing down.

Absentmindedly, the man looks down at the figure sleeping against him. Both are pressed into a corner of the Skyforge; it is wholly uncomfortable in comparison to a cot yet Vilkas would have nothing else at that moment. When his pale brown eyes sweep across the form asleep and resting on his arm, he can’t help but lean down and press his lips to her forehead. _Real. This is real. You’re here again._

He curses himself throughout the night for not realizing sooner. Suspicions are one thing, but the evidence was clear. _How else does someone who looks just like her be alive? Have the same story?_

Vilkas does not know the _how_ or the _why_. He does not care about either of those. His concerns rest only with going forward, recovering his brother, and making life easier for Vinci to readjust to. The latter, Vilkas knows, he has hindered due to his past actions. The man sorely regrets sleeping with Ria and Njada. He knows why he did but knowing only makes the shame worse. He does not have an obsession with Vinci being _Leilani;_ he has feelings for the woman at his side, deep feelings capable of provoking intense attraction and desire. Feelings he knows he should have addressed in better, healthier ways.

 _Talos forgive me. I have a world to repent for._ Vilkas grimaces. He intends to, not only with Vinci but also Ria and Njada. The thought of Ria stings particularly hard. He knows the woman wanted something with him, something more than what the two had as sparring partners, and he didn’t rebuke or reject her advances. _What can I do to show remorse? What’s worthy of Ria?_

Njada he does not feel as inclined to apologize for. He made the terms of the two’s arrangement perfectly clear: it was only sex, no strings attached, no relationship and nothing more than spontaneous flings. He never kept the woman around after to cuddle, never kissed her, and he never regarded her as anything more than a Shield-Sibling outside the bedchamber. To his knowledge, she took it the same way. It is why the unpleasant woman—though a respectable fighter—and him worked well in bed: neither wanted anything but pleasure and release, a moment of physical intimacy shared between two partners. The woman hadn’t cared when Vilkas took her aside and expressed calling off the arrangement. If anything, Njada found it amusing Vilkas went through so much trouble interrupting her sparring match between her and Athis.

Which leaves Vinci. The werewolf does not know where to begin with her. He knows what he wants, but his thoughts are about what _she_ wants. She told him she wants him hours earlier. Even after she fell asleep, Vilkas continues to think of it. It plagues his mind like a welcome gnat buzzing away. _Was it an answer to wanting me in general? Or… wanting…_

The man feels heat creep up his face. He swallows. He won’t deny it, nor can he at this point, he is utterly taken with the woman. He finds something to say about every single piece of her, even the ‘her’ that is buried underneath a shell of twenty-years past. He thinks about the tiny expressions he’s caught before: of enthusiasm, of passion, of anger, of grief… Vilkas wants to see them all. He wants to see every one and make a record in his mind of how they are each different, the same, similar and yet unique. He wants to learn how to make the happy ones appear, the joyous ones, the bright look in the woman’s eyes when she gets excited and starts talking about hiking to the Throat of the World. He wants to see resolve when she smiths—a relatively recent undergoing, but one that excites him all the same—and warmth when she looks at him. He wants to see the different ways she looks at him, everything from sweet and kind to sweat-covered enthrall of passion.

 _No matter who you are now. Leilani. Vinci. Or… someone else. You matter to me. I want you here._ Vilkas inhales slowly. The woman still smells like a blacksmith, though that could be due to the proximity of the Skyforge. He wonders what she thinks about. _Smithing? Jobs? Our past?_

When the woman begins to stir, Vilkas feels a ping of fear string down his spine. He stiffens and watches as the dazed, exhausted woman opens her green eyes. Her gaze slowly flickers around the area before returning to him. There is a note of fear to them, and it makes Vilkas freeze in place. He remembers the catacombs. _Don’t forget me. Please don’t forget me. Please. Leilani. Vinci. Please. Please._ His stare is wide and fearful. He sees the woman stare up, the strange green gaze taking his breath away even in his panic.

She shifts and lifts a hand to his face. Her sleepy eyes are weary, but seeing the hint of warmth peek through them makes all his worries lift. Vinci tilts her head to one side. “…You’re here.”

“I am.” Vilkas confirms.

“I’m glad.” Vinci says softly. The sky over Whiterun is still dark. She lowers her hand to his and rests it there.

The man can’t help but lean down and kiss her. Her lips are as sweet as the previous night’s memory. The fact she kisses him back thrills him to no end. Vilkas exhales softly and draws away enough to look into the Silver Hand’s green eyes. “Tomorrow’s come.”

“It has,” the woman sounds reluctant to admit it. “We leave at dawn. Right? That’s…”

“Not long, no.” Vilkas frowns. The Companion’s free hand rises to tuck a strand of hair behind Vinci’s ear. He feels warm and giddy on the inside at the sight of her blush.

“Where are we going?” Vinci leans into his touch. “Where does the Silver Hand want me?”

The Companion tenses. By all Nine, he despises the entire plan. He hates how it forces him to trade someone precious for another. He despises it even more than before for how it takes _Vinci,_ once _Leilani_ , and forces her back into the hands of a group that will imprison her.

 _But they won’t kill her. They’ve kept her alive for ten years. Got to be a reason for it._ The man tries to comfort his own anxieties over the whole situation. _She won’t be there long. She won’t. Just… enough for us to get to the camp. Raid it. Get her and my brother out. We’ll get rid of these Silver Hands once and for all. And then… Then… Go from there._

It is a plan with a long list of things that could go wrong. Vilkas does not like plans that have that quantity of risk, but it is beyond his influence now. The man shifts next to Vinci and sits up. “—Silent Moon Camp. It’s North of Whiterun. Won’t even be a days ride out there. We just… don’t know where their _actual_ camp is. My bet’s on Silent Moon being a temporary camp. Maybe even a small outpost, but nothing like a long-term settlement. According to Kodlak, there’s actually an ancient forge there,” the Companion pauses long enough to meet Vinci’s gaze before continuing. “…You said the Skyforge has got silver, right?”

“It does. It’s… It has its own silver. I can see it even in the light.” Vinci’s brows furrow. She seems as confused about the notion of seeing silver as the man is.

“—This other forge—you might have the chance to see it,” Vilkas sees the subject as means to direct the conversation to something hopefully less stressful to think about. The man inhales deeply. “Maybe it’ll be silver, too.”

“If it’s like the Skyforge—That’s…”

“Maybe it won’t get you answers, but—”

“—It would be a correlation! Somewhere to start looking!” Vinci’s green eyes become big and bright a moment. The woman’s cheeks become a rosy pink. She looks to the side. Her gaze softens, and the expression alone dissuades any potential worry from flitting up Vilkas’s chest. “…thanks for the idea. If I live to the end of this then maybe—"

He puts both hands on her shoulders and stares diligently at her. Her eyes lock with his. She stares. His gaze narrows and the werewolf states firmly. “You’ll live.”

“You’re confident,” Vinci remarks offhandedly. She lifts a hand to his face and gently cups his cheek, running her thumb on it in small circular motions. “That’s… That’s good. Nice. I need more of that. I want to be confident again.”

The Companion’s eyes soften. “In time. You’ll get there.”

“In time,” she nods in agreement. The Nord smiles faintly at him, subtle but evident. It makes Vilkas’s heart start to beat loudly in his ears. He absentmindedly shifts a hand to hers and entangles their fingers. Vinci’s face flushes red. She looks at their hands and quietly asks, “…Can I ride with you? There. I like being close to you. You make me feel safe.”

“Front or back?” Instead of answering his question, Vilkas watches Vinci scoot close and put her free hand in his hair, ruffling it gently. The man feels heat pool in his abdomen. The Silver Hand’s nails raking his scalp is a lovely sensation he wants to repeat over and over, but he does not want to badger the woman. The man’s breath hitches regardless. He feels the woman freeze before snapping her hand back.

“Did I hurt you?” Vinci asks, in a voice with far too much sincere worry. “Vilkas. Vilkas?”

“—Opposite, actually,” Vilkas mumbles. He says it too loud, because the woman’s entire face lights up redder than the banner of the Imperial Army. The man instinctively throws up his hands, blurting all the while. “—Vinci—It’s not a _bad_ thing—”

The woman scoots several feet from him and buries her face in her hands. She looks mortified. “—Talos help me—I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t… I don’t… I don’t…”

The reaction is cause for concern. Vilkas lowers his hands and frowns. The man squints at her. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t—I don’t know how to do _this_ ,” the woman gestures a hand at her, then at him. “I don’t know if I want to do that, Vilkas! Not… now… here… I… I don’t…”

It dawns on him the woman is talking about sex. Vilkas frowns and peers at her. “I’m not… propositioning you to… have sex right now. Vinci.”

“You aren’t?” There’s something wrong with the sincere shock in her voice.

“No.” The Companion repeats. “No, I mean,” his own cheeks dust red at the thought of the previous night. He clears his throat. “I’d enjoy it, sometime, if you… if you wanted to... But,” Vilkas exhales sharply. “I—I know right now _isn’t_ that time. I don’t know if there is going to be a ‘time.’ Maybe there won’t be. If that’s the case—”

He is an astute man. He notes the way the woman looks up and peers at him with big eyes. There’s a note of fear to the green depths, a hint at something that triggers a horrible nausea in the pit of his stomach. Very few things have provoked such an intense, disgusting rage and horror in the man, but the realization of what signs point to makes the man go through a wave of turbulent emotions. He struggles not to begin seething on the spot, squirming in place to keep his voice level and calm with her.

“—Then I’ll deal with it. We’ll deal with it. In a way that doesn’t,” Vilkas sucks in a deep breath. “That doesn’t make you… do anything you aren’t okay with. I promise.”

 _Someone did something to you. They crossed a line with your… body._ The thought fuels his _blood_ to snarl viciously inside his soul. Vilkas wants nothing more than to hunt down the individual or individuals responsible and rip them to shreds. But he has nothing. He has no names, no locations, not even a vague description or so much a _gender_ to go off of and start a hunt with.

His thoughts continue to rush and blaze with a deep-seeded fury even after Vinci relaxes and returns to his side. The woman states a late but happy response, “…I appreciate that. A lot. More than—"

“You don’t need to—I don’t need thanks. I… just want you to feel safe around me,” Vilkas looks away. His gaze dims. The anger begins to dissipate to unrest, unease, to sickness. He shoves the feelings to the back of his mind, “You matter to me.”

“The back.” Vinci says.

The Companion stares at her.

She scratches her cheek and tentatively meets his gaze. “Can I have the back? That way—I could… I can hold unto you. On the ride to Silent Moon.”

Vilkas’s eyes soften. The rest of the nauseous thoughts and feelings slip away, replaced with a warm buzz that spreads across his body. The man grunts, “’Course.”

“Really?” Vinci’s smile is sweet enough to kiss.

 _To kiss a hundred times, maybe. No, more than a hundred. Got to be thorough._ Vilkas thinks. The thought causes him to stop and reconsider the events of the previous evening. He frowns and glances at her. “Vinci—Did—The other night—Did—Did you—Enjoy—Want—With—" He becomes tongue-tied in the words, finally shutting up and staring at the woman with growing concern.

The woman’s pause makes him feel ill all over again. When her hands go to his face and her lips meet his, he wants to melt into a puddle of relief. His hands shake even as he tucks them into the woman’s long hair and kisses her back. He feels her shift to sit on her knees and kiss him more thoroughly, until he is the breathless one wondering whether he’s died and awoken in Sovngarde early. He only knows he is alive because of her weight against him, wrapped up in his limbs as much as he is entangled in hers, where her breath becomes another for his to steal just as his becomes another for her to spirit away.

Feelings are dangerous. The man can barely think coherent thoughts when Vinci draws back, opening her green eyes to peek at his watching brown ones. He thanks all Nine Divines none of the other Companions are present. He knows none would ever let him live down the flabbergasted expression he holds, nor the shade of red the heat on his face must reflect. He stares at Vinci, because words do not describe how quickly he would throw himself into a volley of silver arrows to keep her safe, how fast he would draw a blade to kill in her name.

“Last night,” the woman speaks with a strange, welcome clarity. “I felt like… I belonged. There. With you. I wanted to do things I don’t think about with others. I wanted to… To…” She struggles with the words and kisses him instead. The man welcomes the two’s newfound line of communication; Vinci says a dozen words in each kiss and then some.

The two waste their remaining hours like that. They talk, and they kiss, and then they talk some more. The two talk about different things. Vilkas learns the woman hasn’t forgotten his promise to train her, and that she looks forward to it if he still wants to—and he does, so, so much—whereas Vilkas shares with Vinci how his impulsiveness and hothead tendencies have waned since his youth but not _entirely_ ; it’s a flaw of Vilkas’s he acknowledges and plans to work on, something Vinci finds admirable.

Sometimes the two talk about sad things. Vilkas learns of the guilt Vinci holds over the loss of her brother. It is similar to his own emotions on how he feels about _her_ “death.”

“We were kids.” Vinci remarks at one point, gaze dim but adamant not to run away from the subject yet. 

“We were.” Vilkas agrees softly. He presses his lips to her cheek and exhales. “We aren’t, now. Things aren’t the same.”

“They’re different now, aren’t they?” The woman’s gaze softens. The warmth is reserved for him. He needs it for the trip ahead.

When dawn comes and the other Companions of Jorrvaskr start to stir, Vilkas can hear Ria’s cursing up-and-down the mead hall even from the Skyforge. He feels Vinci tense in his lap. She leans against him and he runs his hand up and down her arm in a show of comfort.

“It’s that time, isn’t it?” Vinci exhales deeply. She looks up at him. “You’ll save a seat for me?”

“Mm,” Vilkas affirms. He freezes when she kisses him one last time, soft and leaving him with a feeling of butterflies across his stomach. He enjoys the feeling; it reminds him he is still, in part, _human_. Lycanthropy has made a claim to his soul, but not his heart. Not even the Daedric Prince Hircine can keep the man’s smitten feelings out of sight.

When the two part, with Vinci returning to Ria’s watch, Vilkas finds himself with little time and too much to do. He needs to talk to many people about many things. The man opts to change into a set of clean clothes and don his armor before pursuing any other matters. When he steps out of his room, greatsword sheathed and clasped to his back with a snug halter that runs over armor pieces, Vilkas blinks in surprise at the sight of another Companion waiting for him. The woman is one he knows well in and out of his room, being none other than Njada Stonearm. His fellow Companion has a stern gaze on her face that reflects unusual seriousness.

In light the knowledge she is usually more apathetic or criticizing than _anything_ else, Vilkas feels hair stand on end on the back of his neck. He adjusts his gauntlets and prays his apprehension and stiff nature isn’t noticed by Njada. It is; the woman raises a brow and flicks her gaze up and down his form before sighing loudly. She cocks her head to one side and eyeballs him. “Can’t believe you were out all night.”

“I had a good reason.” Vilkas states. His gaze narrows. “Our arrangement’s off, Shield-Sister.”

 _“Really?_ You assume I wanted to talk to you about having more _sex?_ ” The lady looks ready to keel over with laughter, endlessly baffled by the thought. It hurts Vilkas’s ego, but the man does not say a word. He waits until Njada calms and can continue. “—Look. That… That’s _over,_ sorry to break it to you. And now, my news? Ain’t changing that.”

“Your news.”

“ _Yes,_ Shield-Brother.” Njada rolls her eyes. The woman looks around the west wing of the living quarters before she crosses her arms and turns attention back to him. “So. We fucked a lot. A _lot_.”

“I needn’t a reminder.” He shuts his eyes.

“Well, you’re getting one. For quite a while. All those damn times you bust in me—” Njada grunts loudly. The woman huffs. “Shield-Brother! _Vilkas_ , look me in the eye.”

“Not for this.” The Companion states.

“For fuck’s sake—Fine, fine,” the woman groans. She sighs. “Look, it was bound to happen, okay? You and I both know Arcadia sometimes shits up her potions. It’s happened before with Torvar and a chick he had one night. Money’s on that Ysolda woman. Anyways.”

The werewolf finds himself at a loss for words at the information. Things click into place in his head quickly. He stares Njada down while the latter twirls a strand of hair around one finger. “You’re pregnant.”

“Haven’t bled in weeks. Now I normally ain’t s’posed to, but… I got a feeling.” The woman grunts. “So I thought… Why not stop by, say hello to a friend of mine at Dragonsreach! He knew _Detect Life_ and everything… came out.”

“Farengar Secret-Fire.” Vilkas holds his head in his hands. He dislikes the wizard, but another magic-user that utterly unnerves him. He has nothing against him personally, but the emphasis on magic is too much for a Companion with a history of abuse by magic-users. Even Rune’s _thu’um_ and what few spells the Dragonborn has is enough to give Vilkas goosebumps.

“Yep.” Njada’s words bring the man back to reality. She groans. “You know, in the past this’d be easier for me to deal with. You know that, yeah?”

“I do.” He bites his tongue.

“Look,” Njada steps closer, but it is not warm or friendly. The woman is back to the weird, strange seriousness that far from suits her. Her gaze narrows. She jabs a finger at Vilkas’s breastplate. “I _know_ we aren’t a thing. We aren’t becoming a thing. _I_ don’t want us to be a thing. It was fun and all, good way to burn through the booze, but you and I? No. Don’t think about it.”

Vilkas can’t help but snort. He doesn’t mean to, but the notion Njada would want him around for something long-term sparks the briefest second of humor. He sees her glare and clears his throat. “I wasn’t.”

“Good.” Njada huffs. She draws her hand back and puts both hands on her hips. “I want you to know that even though we aren’t a _thing_ , you’re still a Companion. I’m a Companion. Companions looks out for each other. So… I hope you look out for your kid. ‘Cause I’m keeping them. Whatever they are—They’re gonna be a Companion, too.”

He had a feeling. Vilkas sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes. He looks at Njada after a long pause and finally nods. “I got it. I’ll be there.”

“Real breadwinner,” Njada’s amused smirk almost pisses him off, but he has more restraint than that. The woman looks at her belly and huffs. “Little shit isn’t making an appearance yet, so. I don’t know how long it takes to show but hold off any announcements ‘till after this Silver Hand bull ends. _Oblivion_ , I’m not dealing with your drama.”

“Keep it in mind. Anything else?” Vilkas raises a brow.

“Nah.” Njada waves him off.

If that was the end of the morning, he might live with it. The news is a shock but not entirely unexpected. Birth control only goes so far, even with both individuals doing their part in prevention regularly. Though Vilkas has half a mind to find Arcadia and drill her over double-checking all future batches of all Companion-related brews, the man holds off. He has little time to himself. He is barely done with breakfast in the mead hall, surrounded by bustling Companions busy eating and making last-minute preparations for the travel ahead, when the Harbinger suddenly graces him with his presence. Kodlak puts a hand on Vilkas’s shoulder.

The Harbinger’s gaze is astute. When he leans over, Vilkas already has an idea of what the Harbinger says: “A moment, Vilkas, outside.”

“A’ight.” Vilkas shuts his eyes. He nods, finishes his current bite of salmon, and pushes his chair back. The man follows the Harbinger out of Jorrvaskr’s halls, where Kodlak takes a stride to the far side of Jorrvaskr’s back grounds before the Harbinger stops and addresses him.

“You know I have great respect for you, Vilkas. You and your brother became part of the Circle at a very young age.” Kodlak’s arms rest at his sides.

The werewolf stares. He can tell the man has something up his sleeve, whether a word of advice or scolding is another matter entirely. It wouldn’t be unlike Kodlak to offer either at this point, not after all the things Vilkas has done to mess up his relationships with other Companions. He must find a way to apologize to Ria, a way that is more than just simple words spoken aloud. He must find a way to show to Njada his remorse while also supporting her through the pregnancy. _And Vinci… I won’t hurt her again. I’ll make sure she never feels that kind of pain and violation overhearing Njada with me. I won’t cause her grief. I swear to it. By Divines, by Talos himself, by Mara and Akatosh and all other Six… I swear to it._

“You smell like the Skyforge. Strangely enough,” Kodlak pauses. “So does the Silver Hand. For two individuals trying to avoid each other—”

“We kissed.” Vilkas opts to throw the fact into the open. One way or another, the Harbinger would find out.

“Ah.” At the elder’s stare, Vilkas begins to shift uncomfortably from one foot to another.

“Harbinger,” Vilkas frowns. The man crosses his arms. “We were wrong about… me having an obsession.”

“How so?” The Harbinger’s gaze is intent and curious, watchful and knowing all wrapped in one stubborn, wrinkly old man.

Vilkas inhales deeply. He grunts, “I… No, what the Circle… and _I_ thought was an obsession… It was not an obsession in the same understanding you, I, and the Circle hold. It was… Was… Unrecognized… Feelings.”

“Quite a mouthful, Vilkas.”

“Aye. But it’s true. I did not consider the possibility, Harbinger. I foolishly overlooked it. It was my doing. My fault. That has not changed. Nor has… the wrongs of my actions in tryin’ to deal with this,” The werewolf states each word clearly and concisely. He means it all with too much honesty, because it is his fault and weight to bear. He knows not to run from his own mistakes. “After all of this… These past months… I know better, now. I think I know how to handle myself.”

“A man’s best strength is often his ability to acknowledge his weaknesses.” Kodlak nods slowly, a smile on his lips.

 _There the advice is._ Is the only thought in Vilkas’s mind. _You are not unpredictable, old man._

“But that isn’t why I asked you out here,” Kodlak clears his throat. His smile becomes a stout frown. The man crosses his arms and taps a foot. “If I recall—Njada Stonearm smells differently. Even this old nose can smell it, Vilkas. Our Shield-Sister smells of _werewolf._ Not the kind of her possessing the _blood_ … the kind of… How you like me to put it? _Your_ blood inside her. She’s with your child.”

“She is.” Vilkas pauses.

“That child is a werewolf, Vilkas.” Kodlak’s words make the man’s blood run cold.

Vilkas stills and stares. The man hesitates. “That…”

“In my many years, I’ve heard only of one other werewolf impregnating someone not of the blood. That was my predecessor… and my sister.” Kodlak clears his throat.

“Askar?” The Companion squints. “The man abandoned Jorrvaskr and its legacy, did he not? How—"

“I’d like you to believe that, yes. But the answer is not that simple, Vilkas.” the Harbinger looks around the grounds.

Torvar and Athis can be spotted far off, talking and comparing the lengths of what appears to be daggers. Torvar has a childish smile on his face. Vilkas snorts softly and shakes his head, he can only imagine the thoughts running through Athis’s head. A cough from Kodlak returns his attention back to the Harbinger. “What makes it complicated?”

“I am going to share something with you. You are not… part of the Circle, now, Vilkas. But you have my trust. Do not misplace it.” Kodlak’s curt tone makes goosebumps run up and down Vilkas’s arms and legs. At the man’s nod, Kodlak continues. “Askar was not… what he should have been. A strong fighter, yes. A man of many talents. Diplomatic. Could smooth out any problem the likes of which Skyrim had not seen before in this Era! Truly impeccable… until he was not.”

When Vilkas stares, he finds the Harbinger, the counselor respected across all Nine Holds of Skyrim, to harbor a dark and grim fire in his eyes. The elderly man looks ready to rip a Daedra’s throat out.

“Vilkas, Askar did not abandon the Companions. He was a Shield-Brother to the very end,” Kodlak clenches his eyes shut and hisses. “…when I beat his face in myself.”

Vilkas flinches and recoils backward. His heart begins to beat loudly. He can feel the anger that flows through Kodlak’s body, surpassing anyone he knows. It is enough to make Athis and Torvar stop mid-conversation and call over to see if the two need anything. Vilkas quickly assures them the two _don’t_ , before he returns his focus to the Harbinger. Kodlak Whitemane is a man that is far less predictable than he thought. He swallows, looks around, and then asks. “…Harbinger. What was your reason?”

“The rape of my sister,” Kodlak snaps, every syllable laced with venom at the thought. “Leilani Whitemane.”

His face drains of color. “Why does…”

“Because, Vilkas,” it strains the old man to reflect on the subject. His fists clench; Kodlak grates his teeth as he breathes out each word. “Because that Silver Hand woman is my _niece._ Leilani passed her name to her daughter and... Leilani’s son shared a name with our late father, Vincint Whitemane. ...Tell me, Vilkas, do you still believe this is a _grand series of coincidences_? Because I have _never_ believed that. Not since you first brought my niece through the gates of Whiterun. Not since you told me ten years past of the Sleeping Giant Inn!”

“I don’t know what I believe.” Vilkas’s voice comes out closer to that of the scared boy buried deep inside him from twenty years ago. He looks at his feet, a feeling of defeat weighing him down. “Why tell this now, Harbinger?”

“Because if Njada Stonearm truly carries to term and births a werewolf… Vilkas,” the elder’s voice dips back into a gentler tone, nothing like the bloodthirst and raving man he was a moment ago. Kodlak sighs deeply. His form slowly slumps. “Leilani Whitemane had twins. One was born a werewolf. That child was cursed for an ill end. He met it, at the hands of the Cult of Namira at an age far too young for any soul to depart this plane.”

“That won’t happen to my child,” Vilkas breathes the words, but he knows it is a mistake. The elder’s glare hurts to acknowledge, as painful and scorching as any silver strike in his flesh. Vilkas grits his teeth. “Harbinger—”

“I am an old man now, Vilkas. An old man with no kin besides a niece who wants my head on a platter. The rest are dead. My parents, my grandfather—murdered in Hammerfell. My sister—murdered at the hands of the cult her wife belonged to.”

 _My mother took me to the butcher. Your mother killed your other mom and then… Leilani…_ Vilkas grabs his head. He begins to hiss. He finds bile rise in the back of his throat but he keeps the contents of his stomach down. “Why tell me this _now?!_ How does this help me?”

“It will help you manage your expectations.” Kodlak states softly. “Because one day you will be old and wrinkled like me, Vilkas. And I do not want you to waste a life weeping over the cursed and ill-begotten. Had I assumed my sister was dead and not sought her out… Not introduced her to Askar…” The man grits his teeth. “Perhaps tragedy could have been avoided. I could have seen the Companions as my family. I could have seen Askar as a father. Not a rapist.” 

“With _respect,_ Harbinger,” Vilkas finds his own voice grows in volume. He exhales sharply and stares at Kodlak with wet eyes. “Your regrets in life—Your tragedies—Does not mean _I_ will be the same, my _child_ will be the same, my _brother_ will be the same, or _Vinci_ will be the same. I make mistakes, but they are not the end of my world. I hold regrets but they will not hang over my shoulders when I have time to fix them! I am not _letting go_ of the living. _”_

For once in his life, Vilkas cannot stand to be around the man. He has respected Kodlak for well past a decade, nurtured and thrived under the man’s guidance and counseling, but even he has his limits. To dare insinuate that tragedy is bound to befall everyone he cares about, to even _think_ the words when reality has not yet caught up to such happening, it outrages him. He is full of flaws, and by Oblivion he knows he is a deeply-flawed man with a tendency to jump toward impulsiveness and hotheaded decisions even at thirty-four, but he is not _hopeless_ and he is not going to sit around and assume the worst when the worst has yet to happen.

Vilkas makes to leave the Harbinger, but he stops before he goes. The man grits his teeth and looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry your life’s full of grief and loss, _Harbinger._ But you are not the only one! Your story is not mine.”

“I hope not.” Kodlak tells him softly.

Vilkas doesn’t give him a reply before he walks back to the mead hall and shoves through its doors. He exhales sharply and spies Ria and Vinci eating at the table, both dressed in scaled armor sets and the latter looking strangely out of place in it. He strides over to Vinci and leans down to kiss her when the latter is mid-sentence greeting him. He can feel Ria’s annoyed stare, but the man can’t be bothered with tact at that moment.

“I _promise,”_ Vilkas swears when he draws back, looking the speechless Silver Hand in the eye. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”


	18. come home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci the silver hand is exchanged for rune the dragonborn. she is forced back into a life full of faces she fears and welcomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw this is not a happy chapter  
> -emile is an abusive piece of shit  
> begins with:  
> "The woman swallows. She nods."  
> if you want to skip the majority of emile c+f:  
> "The end of the tunnel leads to another cave with another sliding door."  
> -there's a mention of rape when tulle addresses vinci

In the eight-hour ride to Silent Moons Camp, Vinci refuses to part ways with Vilkas. The woman finds he is the only source of comfort in the mess of travel, loud animals, and Ria’s constant watch. She opts to stick to his side whenever the Companions and Jarl’s men stop to let horses drink water. She turns down Ria’s offer to ride on the Companion’s horse in favor of taking the back seat in the saddle of Vilkas’s horse. She likes to hold unto him when the horses take off again. He has an appealing smell that relaxes her no matter how many times she jumps or flinches at the surroundings. She likes the way the man leans into her grasp, her arms wrapped around him. It feels wonderfully right.

But the ride eventually comes to an end. In the ten hours of travel, with an unexpended difficulty tacking on an extra hour and two half-hour breaks, dawn shifts to late afternoon and early evening skies. The blue is hidden behind a layer of gray clouds that are as gloomy to look at as they are to think about. The terrain gradually becomes rougher the further North from Whiterun the group becomes, to the point some of the horses must be walked through sections of crumbling rocks and beginnings of the Pale’s snowy threshold. Gradually, the topography of Whiterun’s fertile grounds, rich flora, and abundant fauna fade away to the harshness of inevitable snow and dry grounds.

It is truly autumn, for the leaves across Skyrim have fallen and not a hint of silver is seen in any of them when the sky begins to darken. Vinci’s gaze dims when the group stops just shy of Silent Moons, where a small encampment is visible within the ancient Nordic ruins.

“Forge would be there,” Vilkas points to the center of the ruins. “It’s called the Lunar Forge.”

“I don’t see silver from here.” Vinci remarks.

When Vilkas climbs off the two’s horse and offers a hand helping her down, she accepts it. Vinci feels his hands cup her face. The man kisses her gently before drawing back to ask. “You doin’ okay?”

“Nervous.” The Silver Hand replies. She holds him tightly. “I want things to turn out okay.”

“We all do.” Vilkas agrees with the sentiment.

It is decided upon that the individual to pass her off to the Silver Hand is Torvar. The decision comes quickly, with Companions agreeing upon it in tandem. Even Ria nods her head at the idea. Vinci frowns and eyes the lot carefully. Her worries ease when Vilkas’s hand squeezes her own. Torvar’s confidence in being able to do the “job” well helps rather than hinders.

“—I know. I _know_ , I’m usually drunk. Today? Sober as the wind.” The blond-haired Nord tells her. His armor is of a leather seat, a mix of light and heavy armor aspects that pull in the aesthetic of furs and steel, much like how Ria’s and Vinci’s scaled sets do. Torvar cracks his knuckles and musters a smile at Vinci. “This’ll be fine. We got a plan, we got men, we got all we need. Yeah?”

Vinci decides, in light of past misgivings with the drunkard, she is okay with Torvar. He isn’t as bad as Njada’s apathetic ass, or Kodlak’s manipulative bullshit. She does not plan to become friends with the man but she decides not to hold ill against him.

“When you’re passed off—One of us will take Rune back to Whiterun. Probably Njada.” Ria comments offhandedly, eying the stoic woman with a stubbornness.

“If he’s treated anything like I was—He will need a healer.” Vinci agrees.

“The rest of us are going to split into groups, direct a portion of the Jarl’s men.” It is Athis who takes over talking, the dark elf keeping his arms crossed but his ears sharp for noise. His ears turn and shift ever-so-slightly with the wind, the surroundings, any little noise does not get by him. Athis clears his throat after a moment and continues. “We will tail you back to the main camp. Ria and Vilkas will lead two groups, Torvar and I the other two. Someone distracts, the other groups sneak in to retrieve you and Farkas. If the Silver Hands traveled far to get here, we’ll cut them off and take prisoners before the main camp. Reconvene then. No point drawing things out. We can give them another reason to keep Farkas alive.”

“Who thought of that?” Vinci pauses. “It’s… very tactical.”

Ria sighs. The Imperial woman shifts her gaze from Vinci to the man at the latter’s side. “—Shield-Brother.”

“Vilkas?” The Silver Hand peers at him. His eyes do not hesitate to meet hers. It makes her feel a little more comfortable with the impending show to know Vilkas has thought through it. The errors remain, but at least it is not improvised on the spot. Vinci nods at the werewolf and smiles when he nods back.

When one of the Jarl’s man calls out that the opposing faction has been spotted, all the woman’s worries and anxieties return. She barely squeezes in a goodbye to Vilkas before she is whisked away by Torvar. The rest of the group, save Njada, parts. Njada remains with two horses hidden behind a cluster of craggy boulders nearby. Torvar keeps Vinci at his side. The rest of the Companions meet with their men and depart, disappearing into the mess of wilderness flanking two sides of the ruins. The ruins themselves become tall and imposing, far from the magnificent reminders of history they were in the light. Silver shapes begin to become visible. Though it hurts Vinci’s head, she takes care to count the visible ones before jabbing Torvar in the side.

“—Eight, at least.” The Silver Hand whispers softly.

“Eight Silver Hands?” The Companion squints at her. “Hey… You aren’t just saying that, right?”

“I can’t explain it.” Vinci looks at her feet. She must present herself as a _prisoner._ It is a hard game to play given she is well-fed, toned, and dressed in armor, but she knows it is possible.

“A’ight, I believe you.” Torvar nods. He puts a hand on her head. “You and me—We’re a _team_ tonight. Got it? You ain’t a Companion, sure. But pretend, for a moment, you’re my Shield-Sister.”

“…I don’t know if I can do that.” Vinci says. She catches a peek in the clouds overhead, giving her a brief glimpse of stars. Her eyes widen and she marvels at the beauty. _I want to go see… the stars… at the Throat of the World…_

“Look what the dogs dragged in.” The voice takes any hope or joy or optimism in the woman and rips it out at the root.

Vinci freezes in place and stares at the mass that shifts into her vision. A man in heavy silver-steel plate-mail steps out from behind a crumbling wall of the ruin. He is a Breton, one with curly hair poking out beneath the edges of his helmet, and a short nose. The light of a torch in the Silver Hand’s grasp spares her any migraines from seeing silver. She can make out the glint of a hazel eye staring her down, and she sees the beginnings of Emile’s scarred eye. He wears a calm smile.

“I’m not a dog, pal!” Torvar shouts from the base of the steps leading up into the ancient ruins. He wraps an arm around Vinci’s shoulders and huffs. “Nor am I dragging no one! You wanted her, so here she is. Where’s your end of the bargain?”

Emile tilts his head to one side. Vinci wishes he died. She wishes he died. She thought he had, back when Ria and Vilkas and Rune took her out of the Silver Hand compound. She thought he was a ghost of a bad memory, nothing more than a bad time to accompany late nights opposed to the very real threat he is in flesh and blood. Vinci’s face slowly becomes a pale, sickly white; she stares at the Silver Hand. He notices and grins ear-to-ear at the reaction. “You want the Dragonborn? You can have the Dragonborn.”

At his whistle, another Silver Hand shoves the Imperial man into view. It is the first time in months Vinci has seen the man, and her mouth hangs open in horror at the sight. He is badly beaten, bloodied and bruised across every visible inch of skin. He wears civilian clothes and is gagged; the Silver Hands have stripped him of his armor and any weapons or gear he once had. Rune’s hair has been messed with, at times ripped out in chunks with godawful scabs welled over the bare patches of skin. His eyes are badly swollen. It looks like he has split his skin in places along his lower lip and eyebrows, but Vinci can only make out so much from the distance.

She wants to puke when Emile makes a point of wrenching the man’s shirt up and exposing his back. The Silver Hand emblem is burnt in an ugly, infected wound across Rune’s back. The flesh is a deep, inflamed red. Vinci’s hands begin to shake her mind catches up processing just what the man has lived through. She does not doubt there are more horrible secrets awaiting discovery when he is taken to a healer.

“How you want to do this?” Torvar calls up the stairs. “Make ‘em both walk half-and-half? I sure as Oblivion ain’t letting you take your Silver Hand back first.”

“The bitch isn’t one of us. Not anymore.” Emile growls the words. He calms and inhales deeply. “Half-and-half, you said? Sure. We send them both to the halfway point. They walk the rest of the way to us. Neither of us _move_.”

“If you think I got a hearing problem, hate to break it to ya: I don’t. I get the picture.” Torvar grunts. He glances at Vinci and meets her gaze. At her stiff, subtle nod, he turns to face forward and shouts. “Alright, send him down.”

All she wants to do is turn and run when Torvar shoves her forward up the stairs. The man doesn’t follow her up. She feels herself shake and shiver, each step becoming long, drawn-out, and painful. Vinci feels the rest of the world melt away into a pit of nothing, so empty and numb her body feels colder than Skyrim’s snow. The ruins of Silent Moons Camp welcome her as she climbs higher, and higher, and higher. She sees Rune stagger lower, the man fighting to stay conscious and semi-alert through his own pain and injuries. The irony in how the two have been treated by each other’s groups is cruel and callous to think about.

When both reach the halfway point, she stops next to Rune. Her eyes meet his swollen ones.

“We’re going to save him,” she whispers softly. “Farkas.”

The Dragonborn stills. He doesn’t have a chance to reply before Emile shouts at the two to keep going. Vinci faces forward and continues the climb. Occasionally, she looks over her shoulder to see Torvar a small figure at the base of the steps. She sees Rune struggle with stairs to the point the man finally drops to one knee and chokes against his gag. As Torvar runs up the steps to his side, Vinci is suddenly dragged the rest of the way to the top. She yells out in surprise at the arms of two Silver Hands gripping her tightly.

Coming face-to-face with Emile makes her stop in place. She stares with wide, fearful eyes as the Breton gives her a quick look up and down. He grunts. “—You’re fed. Clean. How many dicks you take to convince ‘em you weren’t a problem, Vinci?”

“I didn’t…” She clenches her teeth, face burning brightly in humiliation. The other Silver Hand members snort. Vinci closes her eyes. “I didn’t bed a Companion.”

“You have more bite than before. Normally…you know better than to talk back.” Emile pauses. He runs a hand down the edge of the woman’s scaled breastplate. “Take the armor off, if this goes awry you're the first to die.”

Vinci’s face drains of color. She looks from one Silver Hand to the next. There are two besides Emile present, both in heavy silver-steel sets and more than capable of tearing her in half if she resists. She has no choice. The woman feels her face light up with a spurt of anger at the degrading action, but she undoes the clasps of her armor and removes each piece one-by-one. She lets it drop to the ground and steps out of the pile, still dressed in thin civilian clothes beneath yet feeling closer to naked than anything else.

The look of satisfaction on Emile’s face makes Vinci’s stomach rattle and wring itself with nausea. “Good. Good. You can listen. If you’re smart, and I know _just_ how smart you are, Vinci,” the man states curtly. “You’ll do as I say. You’ll do as _we_ say. I know Tulle and Krev both want to see you, but that doesn’t mean you have to arrive there in one piece.”

The woman swallows. She nods. When Emile’s fist connects with her stomach, she keels over and wheezes in pain.

The Silver Hand kicks her side with his boot and growls. “—You _answer_ me when I talk to you.”

“Yes—Yes sir,” Vinci forces between sharp gulps of air. Her mind begins to break away from the rest of her body, slowly feeling the grip of dissociation set in. Everything Emile does, say, and breaths triggers her memories and emotions. She wants nothing more than to curl up next to Vilkas, in the arms of someone she feels _safe_ with, but the werewolf isn’t there. She is hauled back to her feet and her hands ripped to her front. She hisses between teeth and holds her breath as two Silver Hand members tightly bind her wrists together.

“How many Companions remain at Jorrvaskr?” Emile begins the set of questions as she is led away by the man through the remains of Silent Moons’s ruins.

“Two,” the woman is too fearful to lie. “Kodlak… the Harbinger. And—An old man. Vignar Gray-mane.”

“So they sent the rest out here, huh?” The Breton whistles sharply. “Fucking _great…_ Hope you didn’t grow soft with them, Vinci. It’ll be a long night and I expect you to keep your legs closed.”

“I didn’t sleep with them!"

Vinci regrets blurting out the words; in a second Emile is back in her face, sneering. “Oh, _sure_ , we know what you were like with Krev. At least—I do.”

His tone is laced with jealousy, the kind petty enough to make Vinci glare daggers. No matter how much she spoke of her hate for the Companions, even for the Harbinger, none of it comes close to the heinousness of _Emile_. The Silver Hand is a backstabber and a traitor waiting to happen. His dislike of her is rooted in a spiteful grudge, born out of nuanced feelings she rejected during the time they worked together. If it weren’t for how much she fears the man, Vinci might find it pathetic. She thinks of it as pathetic in the confines of her mind.

But she _is_ scared. He terrifies her. The woman inches backward and bumps into a Silver Hand behind her, who cusses her out and shoves her forward. “Keep moving!”

The Silver Hand is smart enough to keep her on her toes, never once offering a second of rest or respite as they push her to march. It confounds her to no end none of them use horses—until the group of Silver Hands, now exceeding eight, ducks between rocky cliffs and slips into a cave hidden in plain sight. The smell of the cave is dank, the air feels damp, and more than once Vinci feels her feet squelch moss underneath. She wrinkles her nose in disgust but doesn’t dare complain. She feels eyes of many drift to her form. She hears whispers between the Silver Hand members as she follows Emile obediently through the cave, halting only when he halts to light more torches and hand them to his underlings.

He is respected by enough Silver Hand members for complaints to be kept to a minimum. The hunters take turns walking one-by-one through a narrow gap in rock, with Vinci almost tripping on her own feet after slipping on a patch of wet moss. She bangs the side of her head against the cave wall and hisses softly. Emile’s chuckle is humiliating. “Having trouble there, Vinci?”

“No, sir.” Vinci whispers. When she gets back to her feet, she is rewarded with the man’s knuckles slamming into her cheek. She staggers back and slumps against the cave wall. She tastes blood in her mouth; she has bit her cheek hard enough to draw it.

“Don’t _whisper_ back to me.” Emile says curtly. “I’ll ask again. Vinci, are you having trouble?”

Her green eyes seethe overwhelmed by fear and hate festering together. She chokes the words out, _“No, sir!”_

The cave ends abruptly several hundred yards in. At least—Vinci thinks it does. She freezes and stares in shock when Emile walks up to a great, flat wall at the end of a large chamber. The man feels across the wall and pushes several protrusions into the stone. Clicks ricochet from inside the walls; an unseen chain mechanism begins to pull a huge slab of stone free from the wall and slides it to the side, revealing a well-lit tunnel burrowing through the earth. Emile grabs hold of Vinci and steps aside. She begins to shake; the proximity with the man is messing with her ability to stay grounded, to not dissociate into a mess of floating emotions and flashbacks.

Silver Hand members enter the tunnel one-by-one while Emile wraps an arm around Vinci’s shoulders and hums. “Vinci, Vinci, Vinci. I appreciate the fact you came all this way _here._ For us. For the Dragonborn! You shouldn’t have.” His smile curves into a grin that is too wicked for her to feel anything but panic.

Emile smiles. She can tell how much he enjoys each of her reactions. It disgusts her. He disgusts her. Every inch of her being feels dirty, gross, and tainted just being in his presence. She wants to burn her own flesh where his arm remains around her neck and shoulders. She wants to skin her body where his hand lingers. Soon, Vinci is squirming under him. Her unease melds with panic and she fidgets uncontrollably. “Stop it—Stop it!”

“If your Companions weren’t tracking us,” Emile says coldly. “I’d enjoy filleting you like a fish. Not enough to kill, but… an example. To the others. What happens to those who step out of line. But you are softer than you know. I haven’t forgotten what you did for the two Companions at the Sleeping Giant Inn, Vinci.” 

Vinci clenches her eyes shut. She freezes. She wants it to be over. She wants him to move on. 

“One of their names is… Farkas. I’ve come to know him very well. He’s a softie, too. For his brother, for you, for the Dragonborn…” Emile trails off the words and hums to himself. He shoves Vinci against the cave wall. She tries to flatten herself against the walls, but the cold stone doesn’t give way and Emile remains against her. The man hisses at her. “Look me in the eyes when I address you!”

She slowly meets his gaze. His one good hazel eye is full of hate. His scarred eye shows nothing, the eye long-since losing any function from the initial injury.

"I hate you," Emile spits.

Vinci begins to cry. She sees the man’s blurry figure draw back. Her sobs grow louder.

Emile releases her and shoves her at the tunnel. _“Walk.”_

She walks. A moment later, she hears the stone wall seal shut behind her. Emile’s steps inform her he follows her trail. The man easily catches up with the crying, scared woman. He grabs her by the hair and yanks her forward, forcing her to speed up until the two are practically jogging through the tunnel. Emile seethes with rage the whole way. The man is an extremely volatile individual, something she forgot in her three months away from the Silver Hands. She fears him. She fears him almost as much as she fears the voice of the Gildergreen, the manipulation of Kodlak Whitemane, or the memories of her past as _Leilani_.

The end of the tunnel leads to another cave with another sliding door. This one is short and smells of dead animal guts. A dead bear is flopped on its side to the right, fur mixing with congealed blood to hint at a recent death. Vinci tries not to stare too much, but it makes her nauseous. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat.

Another group of Silver Hand members, ones with too many horses for only them, waits outside. With them is a Nord woman in gleaming armor, made of the same silver-steel materials as the rest of the silver Hands but significantly lighter. The Nord has a long blond braid pulled back into a loose bun. The style reminds her of how she sometimes pulls her hair back, because Vinci knows the woman is the one who taught her how to do so.

Vinci is pushed forward by Emile and made to march to the blond-haired woman. The latter purses ruby red lips and flicks her gaze up and down Vinci’s form. Vinci swallows. “Tulle—"

She flinches in shock when arms wrap around her. Vinci’s eyes water. Her mind cannot process the overwhelming emotions that come alive at the fact one of the Silver Hand leaders holds her. It feels strange and unknown, far from the warmth and safety Vilkas’s grasp offers.

“Thank Stendarr, thank the Divines,” Tulle breathes aloud. She draws back, eyes wet with her own tears. “You’re alive. What did they do to you? Did they hurt you? Rape you?”

Vinci’s mouth hangs open. She cannot remember the last time she saw her older sister. _No. It was… It was… years ago. She visited me in my cell. She told me… Krev was sending her to another compound. Emile would be responsible for me._

Her stomach twists with pain and hesitancy. Her tears begin to fall down her cheeks, confused and helpless to the raw emotions spiking her inside. Tulle wipes them away and cups her sister’s cheeks. “I will have their heads. I promise you. Every last one will die for taking you from us—We will string their bodies up the streets of Whiterun Hold! I will put their Harbinger’s head on a spike as a warning! Vinci, please, just talk to me.”

“They…” Vinci freezes. She sees Emile’s cold gaze bury itself in her side. The man’s smile is cruel and taunting, practically whispering in her ear _go on. Tell her I what I did to you. See what happens._

 _No. No, that’s what you want. I don’t know why. But you are a sick, sick man, Emile. A depraved, twisted individual._ The Silver Hand finds the thoughts come easier now. At Tulle’s side—a place she has been absent from for ten years, since her actions claimed the life of a Silver Hand and nearly took the life of two others—she finds a semblance of comfort and control. Her old life calls to her, begging her for a second chance to avoid the pain of the presence. But it is not the call of a Silver Hand that entices her to consider it.

She knows the Companions cannot track her. They will lose time with the two sliding doors, even if they somehow figure out how to unlock it opposed to bashing it down. The Silver Hand will be far gone by then, traveling on horseback to wherever the real camp is. Vilkas and the others will not find her. She is gone. She is free from them, and back in the hands of her former captors. _But he promised… He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t let anything happen to me._

“They did this to me.” Vinci whispers softly. She hears Tulle curse and sees Emile pause. Vinci clenches her eyes shut, exhaling with all the pain and fear she feels towards Emile. “Their Harbinger… He’s a dangerous man. A dangerous man. Tulle.”

“We know. We know,” Tulle pulls her into a hug. Her sister gently strokes her back, saying all the while. “We have a little bird in their hall, Vinci. We know what’s gone on. We know you didn’t turn on us. You could have. You refused. Even after… you learned of your past with two of them.”

Vinci lets her tears fall. She uses it as an excuse not to say a word, crying loudly instead regardless of the stares other Silver Hands give her.

She cannot rely on the Companions to save her. That doesn’t matter. She can accept her irrelevancy in the grand scheme of things. _But that means… they can’t save Farkas. Farkas is going to die._

“I can tell you,” Vinci chokes the words. Her mind is made up. “Everything—Everything about them—About—Jorrvaskr. What I saw. Learned. I…”

_Farkas will die unless I do something._

“I don’t want to go back there.” She whispers the words. For a moment she imagines Eorlund’s hammer firing upon a silver nail and embedding it in her soul. Her mind is made up. She will do _something_ , even if it comes at the expense of everything.

“You won’t. Never.” Tulle rests her hands on Vinci’s shoulders. The woman exhales sharply. “You’ve… lived a long punishment. Ten years of it, Vinci. But now… Now… It’s time for that to be over. It’s time for you to come home. You’re not a Companion. You’re a Silver Hand. You’re one of us, aren’t you?”

Eyes fall on her. Vinci meets Tulle’s gaze and feels her head revert to the slight head-tilt thing Vilkas once spoke of. She nods, “I’m Vinci. Vinci the Silver Hand.”


	19. his head will be yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to be a silver hand again, vinci must meet with the leader of the silver hand: a man named krev the skinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys  
> this is a very plot-y chapter  
> thank you for reading (heart)  
> today's background music is icarus by bastille (confetti)
> 
> tw  
> heavy implications of past abuse during imprisonment  
> and talk about murder

The Silver Hand is not a group of rag-tag, disgraced Vigilants anymore. Vinci sees how deeply flawed her perception of not only Emile but of the _entire_ Silver Hand is. She is a fool to think the taste of the world outside the cell reflected reality. Her head was filled with thoughts of walks around rivers, warm arms, and respect; the actual world of Skyrim is far from moral codes and notions of _honor._ Even with Tulle at her side and keeping an eye on her, she feels throughout the extent of the trip exactly _how_ nauseating the Silver Hand is. The stares and leers and comments are disgusting. Emile’s existence is a horrible thing; he laughs and encourages the behavior among individuals who, hypothetically, should now be on her side.

For Kodlak to maintain an iron-clad grip on the Companions and keep behavior from spiraling into the cesspool it is in the Silver Hand… For once, Vinci finds a part of the man admirable. But then she remembers the manipulation and deceit he too enacts and imposes, and her admiration wavers with the rest of her understanding of reality.

The Silver Hand is dangerous. It is a radical cell of individuals fully devoted to purging the lands of Skyrim of Daedric influence. Created by a disgraced Vigilant of Stendarr named _Reeves_ , the group has exploded in influence and power. Links with other rogue cells across Skyrim, including the Riften _Dawnguard_ , have been established. New recruits constantly flow into the group’s three primary compounds, the command of which is split between Krev the Skinner, Tulle, and Emile. Tulle fills Vinci in on blanks in her memory and knowledge as they ride the same horse northeast, crossing into the Pale’s province early on along with the dozens of Silver Hands with them. It is a two-day trek to reach the main camp, a fort encampment called Fort Dunstad.

“Krev will want to see you when we get there,” her sister tells her with a nod as the two’s horse trots on. The mare is a horse with a gray pelt, dubbed ‘Slush’ by Tulle on a good day. The Nord keeps her grip on the reins tight spite of her friendly demeanor toward Vinci. “Emile and I will go with you.”

“I understand,” Vinci’s gaze dims. _They don’t trust me._

She is not comfortable surrounded by Silver Hands. Even if she calls herself one, she does not see herself as _that_ kind of Silver Hand. In her head it is a separate thing entirely. She wonders what it means, if the mess of it all entails her allegiance lying to no groups rather than be forced to a cell like the Silver Hand. The woman frowns and keeps a sharp look out as the group keeps moving. Unlike Whiterun Hold, the Pale is much dryer and sparse, primarily full of cliffs, rocks, and dry foliage opposed to the abundance of varying fauna and flora of Whiterun Hold. It feels dreary and oppressive.

She misses Vilkas.

The Silver Hand tries not to think too hard about him over the nights, but when a snowstorm springs upon the group and forces the Silver Hand members to take shelter and spend an extra night waiting the storm out, she can’t help _but_ think of him. He’s a magnet for her mind. Thoughts of him make her feel warm. Thoughts of him bring her mind back to the moments when she felt safe, warm, and at peace with everything occurring in the world. It had been but days since the man kissed her. The warmth of a cloak Tulle gave her early on the trek, and even that of an extra bedroll, is nothing compared to the arms of a werewolf that can take her breath away.

She wonders if he misses her. She wonders if he cares. It’s hard to remain confident and optimistic when there’s nothing to back up the sentiment. She is a Silver Hand, and he is a Companion, and she will ruin any hope of ever escaping both groups once she frees Farkas.

 _But it will keep him alive. It will keep him safe. I’ll protect Farkas. They can have me._ Vinci thinks. _All I ever wanted for us when we were kids… was for them to get out. To stay alive. I know what happens to me. I know how Leilani dies. But Vilkas and Farkas get to live._

“Here.” Tulle calls her over when the storm starts to pass. The Nord pulls a comb made of bone from a pack and pats the spot in front of her. Vinci sits. The Nord calmly begins to comb the woman’s long black hair, making to braid it only after it is free of its many, many tangles. Tulle wraps it around the woman’s head and pins it into place using small hairpins. She smiles at her work. “Like we are teenagers again, mm?”

Vinci hesitates. Her hand lifts to touch it. “You never did tell me how to pin it properly. Usually…”

“What? You just—Let it flop around in a loose braid? Almost as bad as having it free to be grabbed, Vinci,” Tulle scolds. The Nord huffs and hefts the comb at Vinci. “Don’t answer that. Take it, I have an extra I prefer to use anyways. You need to keep that combed or it will end up like a mop.”

 _Vilkas’s hair is like a mop._ The thought makes Vinci pause.

Tulle squints. “You want mop hair, woman?”

“No, no,” Vinci holds up her hands. She takes the comb. It is not bone as she first thought, but mammoth ivory. Her eyes widen. “This is… valuable. Tulle. Are you sure?”

“By Stendarr, if I wasn’t—I’d have kept it for myself. Vinci,” Tulle shifts so the two can sit side-by-side rather than one in front of the other. She pauses. “I… know these circumstances are unusual. But you have to understand why we did what we did.”

“Locking me in a cell for ten years has an excuse?” Vinci cannot hold her tongue in time before she blurts out the words.

Tulle’s eyes narrow. “You murdered our father.”

“I did.” Vinci says softly. “Almost got Krev, too.”

“Reeves _founded_ this group, Vinci! He took you in! Gave you a sister, _me_ , and you—”

“He defended Krev’s actions.” Vinci becomes very glad no other Silver Hand are in immediate earshot, because her tone becomes very, very angry. She grits her teeth. “ _You_ defended Krev’s actions.”

Tulle rises to her feet. “For the record, what I _said_ back then was that I thought we should give it some time and touch back on the subject later—”

“How in Oblivion do you touch back on a subject involving the _murder of children?!”_ Vinci leaps to her feet and shoves a finger in Tulle’s face. She finds her fear momentarily dissipates, replaced by anger a decade overdue. “Lycanthropy isn’t—It isn’t found in _kids_ , Tulle! They weren’t—”

“That’s not true. There’s been two cases in eight years. Both involved children people didn’t suspect until it was too late for the rest of the family. Do you honestly think we act without due cause, Vinci?” The blond-haired Nord clenches her teeth. “Do you think Krev _enjoys_ running around and killing werewolves who are _children?_ No! No one does! That isn’t what the Silver Hand is about! What we’re about—Is doing whatever the fuck is necessary to cleanse the land of Daedric influence! To free _mortals_ from the plagues set upon us by immortals! It’s the job no one wants to thank us for yet wants us to do because everyone else is _scared_ to act. We do what we must, Vinci. We do what we must.”

The words sting. Vinci once believed a similar line of thinking, that being part of the Silver Hand was a noble or just pursuit. She keeps the thought to herself and stares at her feet. The woman’s shoulders slump. “I…”

“You know.” Tulle grits her teeth. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for this. I understand that. It’s not for _everyone_ , Vinci. But we can talk about that. We can talk about _you_ and what your future holds! But what I want is making sure none of us jump to _conclusions_ without giving it some thought. It’s what I wanted then. It’s what I want now. And I think our father would have wanted the same.”

Vinci exhales. “You think he would want me in a cell ten years? Alone? Treated the way I was?”

“You had everything you needed.” Tulle interjects.

It makes the Silver Hand begin to seethe again. She felt a little bad before, even a touch guilty, but those feelings evaporate in favor of outrage. She snaps her head up and stares daggers at Tulle. “—You think I had everything I needed? Are you that naïve? Do you have _any idea_ what those guards did to me when you weren’t around?! How Emile treated me?!”

Tulle freezes.

A sick feeling crawls into Vinci’s stomach. She stares. “No. That’s not possible. You had to have known. You had—"

Her sister’s eyes become dark, like the evening sky before an ensuing storm. Tulle’s fists clench. “Vinci. What did they do to you?”

Vinci cannot answer. Her mind becomes a rush of disbelief and shock; her senses are overwhelmed by the rich, intense emotions flooding her mind. She remains grounded in reality only because Tulle’s hands move to rest on her shoulders.

“Vinci.”

“I don’t know if,” the woman’s green eyes well with tears. “If I can… believe that. How… It was _years,_ Tulle—Did you never—You never asked of me?”

“What are you talking about?! Of course, I—I always asked! I always did! I wrote to you! I sent you tokens of the outside world! Emile told me—” Tulle exhales sharply. The woman bites her lip and looks to the side. “Emile. Emile. Emile. Of course. I should’ve known. I should have—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t change what they all did.” Vinci breathes. She can think enough to fumble for the edge of her blouse. Tulle and Emile alike haven’t given her armor to don over her clothes, so lifting her shirt enough to expose her abdomen is easy.

Tulle begins cursing when she sees the thick, ugly mass of scar tissue in the shape of the Silver Hand’s emblem. “He branded you?!”

“He calls me pig a lot.”

 _“You are no animal!”_ The woman hisses. She looks over her shoulder. “And he wanted me to take his men… No, no. No. We will go to Krev. I will speak to him about this. Emile must be punished for this. I will see to it he is.”

“Krev will defend him,” Vinci’s gaze dims. “He will. He will.”

“Krev is not the same man you knew! He has… grown. Changed.” Tulle swallows. “I need you to believe me, Vinci. I need you to trust me. Take me at my word.”

It is cruel irony, nothing short of _madness,_ that her older sister pleads with her to trust her when she fakes loyalty of the Silver Hand to win the trust of others. She wonders if Tulle plays the same game she does: one of many faces, multiple layers, and the names of the dead a person cannot let go of. It is a sad game. Vinci does not enjoy thinking about how the game ends, who wins and who loses, and how her life may be drastically shortened in the next day. She does not believe the Silver Hand will _kill_ her, at least not right away. But she knows from experience what the prisons are like. She knows what its members can do.

She fears the idea.

“I trust you.” Vinci whispers. She feels Tulle pull her into a hug, one that is much warmer than before but still retains stiffness and rigidity.

When the group gets moving again, Vinci keeps her gaze neutral and her engagement with the other Silver Hands to a minimum. She responds only to Tulle, answering every question with as much honesty she can get away with. She knows better than to try and outwit her older sister with two too many lies. To her relief, Emile is occupied by squabbles over who’s riding horse is who’s between a group of his men. The Breton quickly dissolves the arguments and the group continues making its way toward Fort Dunstad.

In the evening of the third day, they reach the fort. It is dusk by the time the group of Silver Hand members pass through the fort’s gates. The fort is less inconspicuous than Vinci anticipates: it has tall, heavily-fortified walls with one set of gates leading in and out of the encampment. A smaller structure has been built to the southern side, resembling a tavern or perhaps a set of private quarters for higher-ranked members of the faction. The rest of the fort is massive, built against the cliff faces of the bluffs flanking it on two sides. It has two levels, but Vinci spies a Silver Hand emerge from a set of stairs that lead into a lower level, likely a prison or dungeon of sorts. She makes notes of the guard locations, the number of Silver Hands in a patrol around the walls, and the state of weapons and armor the average individual has.

The Silver Hand is far more equipped than the previous compound. The silver-steel armor looks to be of exquisite properties, mixing in elements of ebony in the heavy armor sets to reinforce already sturdy equipment. The individual working at an outdoor blacksmith has dozens of silver-steel blades hanging in racks, revealing the fine details of each newly-crafted weapon for Vinci to marvel at. She spots three different longswords, all with their own unique hilt and scabbard. Part of her itches to grab a shovel and start hauling coal into the forge or ore into a furnace, but she restrains herself.

“Emile, let Krev know we are here.” Tulle calls out when the group is in the process of dismounting and putting horses into stables.

The Breton grits his teeth. “It would be my pleasure! Anything else, you highness?”

“Less sass.” The Nord snaps. She helps Vinci from the horse and steps back after. The woman gestures around the fort. “Welcome to Fort Dunstad. Formerly occupied by bandits. Nine years ago Krev took it in a battle that’d put the Stormcloaks to shame.”

“Not hard to do.” Vinci says under her breath. She does not enjoy the politics of Skyrim. She would rather go her own way, not tied to any place, person, or thing.

 _Does that include Vilkas?_ The woman pauses. She frowns and shoves the thought of the man from her mind. She cannot afford to show signs of warmth and affection for the Companions. Her potential to remain outside a cell relies on her _hating_ the Companions and taking up arms as a Silver Hand once more.

More importantly—Her potential to help Farkas relies on her not being imprisoned for another ten years. She bites her tongue and glances around the encampment. The Silver Hands who work here are far more orderly than Emile’s men. The latter’s platoon makes jokes and curt comments to one another while waiting for an order. When they dawdle, Tulle shouts orders at them; the Silver Hands groan and grumble but disperse to carry them out.

Once alone, Tulle turns to Vinci. “We have three units. My Silver Hands are the best, but Krev asked I comply with Emile’s wishes and take his soldiers instead of my own. I promise—They do not speak for all of us.”

It is almost comforting, if Vinci was not disgusted by the Silver Hand as a whole. She swallows the feelings and nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m going to take you to see Krev, then we’ll discuss your future and what that involves.” Tulle starts walking to the fort door and Vinci hastily follows. Her sister has no qualms shoving Silver Hand individuals out of her path on the way up the stairs into the fort. She pulls open a great iron door and holds it open for Vinci to go through.

Vinci enters Fort Dunstad and stares at the sight. It is incredibly well-lit, spacious, and clean. The main hall has a long table with a bit of clutter in terms of dishes and cups strewn around, but it far from Jorrvaskr’s rowdy mead hall. The Companions appear utter slobs without Tilma to help them, and even then, the elderly woman only does so much. Messes are still present across Jorrvaskr. More than once Vinci recalls seeing Kodlak kindly inform a Companion to go _clean up_. The thoughts make her frown. She does not want to think about them.

“Come, Krev should be in his quarters.” Tulle leads her down a corridor that branches to the right wing of the fort. It has a stretch of rooms on the first floor that Tulle confirms are living quarters. “The officers tend to stay here. Or dump their shit here. I’m not complaining. If they work, it works.”

“I see.”

Even after three day’s time to prepare herself for seeing the man again, when Tulle finally shoves open a door and Vinci peeks through she feels her heart jump in her chest. The Silver Hand’s eyes grow wide and she stares at the sight of a tall, muscular man that looks as young as he did ten years ago. Krev “the Skinner” as he is aptly nicknamed, is a Nord man with tan skin and a shaved head. In the past, Vinci recalls him having pale blond hair not unlike Tulle’s own, a common trait among Nords of the Pale. Krev’s face holds several deep scars that are visible even at a distance. One of them is a wretchedly _large_ one that extends down his jaw and neck.

Vinci remembers making that one herself.

When Krev sees her, the man stops mid-spiel with Emile and turns to the door. Tulle offers a humble wave and ushers Vinci in before stepping in herself and shutting the door behind the two. Vinci is immediately flush with memories, pressed against an entire room full of items from the past. She sees Krev’s large bed has not changed, neither from its dark wood frame to the headrest the two once used nightly. She sees the desk she once sat at to review inventory or discuss the day’s events. She sees trophies of hunts the two went on. A werewolf’s head, preserved by a taxidermist she found on her own, is the shining piece over the middle of the fireplace.

“See? Better condition than any of us thought. They _fed_ her good.” Emile grunts loudly. He shuts up when Krev holds up a hand.

Krev strides forward to Vinci. The man’s deep blue eyes scan her face. She feels self-conscious until he backs away. His voice is deep and contemplative as he states. “…Vinci.”

“Krev.” Vinci bites her lip.

“I’ve been told,” Krev crosses his arms. He is an imposing, intimidating man by stature. At one point in the past, Vinci recalls loving that about him. Krev tilts his head to one side. “You want to be… a Silver Hand again?”

“It’s time for her to come home, Krev.” Tulle clears her throat. Though the man stares coldly at her, Tulle continues anyways. “It’s been ten years.”

“She murdered your _father.”_

“She did.”

“The _leader_ of the Silver Hand, Tulle.” Krev repeats each word slowly, emphasizing the sentence with his eyes.

Once upon a time, Krev drove _her_ wild with those eyes. The man always had a way of using them to get her riled up and a panting, breathless mess. Vinci does not share the same thoughts she did as a young adult, but she admits a ping of nostalgia wells up inside her at the sight.

“I think,” Tulle’s words cut through any nostalgic thoughts and force Vinci back to reality. “If you give her the chance… she will prove herself in action.”

“I’m considering it.” Krev turns to Vinci. The man lowers his arms to his side. “You were always a smart lass, Vinci. What would you do if you were in my shoes? How would you… _handle_ this?”

It is a test, Vinci realizes. She sees it in front of her. Krev does not trust her. Neither does Tulle, not entirely, and Emile wants her head on a platter. The woman sucks in a breath and meets Krev’s gaze with a calm one of her own. She stares her former lover in the eyes and speaks carefully. “I would say no.”

“Why’s that?” Krev hesitates.

“Because this person murdered the former leader of the Silver Hand. This person attempted to kill me. This person will deceive me if I grow close to them again,” Vinci says quietly. Her brows furrow but her gaze remains locked on the Skinner’s. “Why would you ever trust me again, Krev? You wouldn’t. Even if you wanted to. Even if you want…so much more than that.”

“Look at that. Scary how accurate you are, lass.” The man smiles at her. It is far from innocent, but it is not wicked in the sense of evil. There is a lust in his lips, a want he yearns to fulfill. Vinci imagines, if she started stripping, the man would kick Tulle and Emile out of the room and take her on the floor then and there. She keeps her clothes on. Provoking a person’s desires is a dangerous game and she is not going to fumble when she has one chance to play it right.

When Krev says nothing more, Vinci takes it as a sign she is okay to continue. The woman inhales deeply and adds on, “If I were you—If I really wanted to say yes—I would ask the person to prove their loyalty. Prove their words have meaning behind them. Action determines whether a word is meaningless jargon or something more.”

“Eloquent.” Krev hums with satisfaction. The man rubs his chin. “Yes… A way to prove your loyalty. Not to _me,_ no. To the Silver Hand.”

“The best way to prove loyalty... would be killing a werewolf.” Emile speaking up spells ill, but Vinci is in no position to refute him. The Breton snorts. “We got one, don’t we? Let me see—Right, that _Farkas_ fellow. Heard he’s still kicking.”

 _He’s not dead yet. I still have time._ Vinci thinks, even as the rest of the conversation plays out.

“We have Vinci back. We don’t need to keep him alive.” Tulle replies curtly. “I say make an example of the beast and be done with him.”

“No—No, no, wait,” Emile snaps two fingers. His grin is wicked in all the worse ways, horrifying to witness and capable of sparking terror in Vinci’s heart regardless of Tulle’s presence nearby. The man squints at her. “Why don’t _you_ kill him, Vince? Since you’re so keen on proving yourself! He’s a _Companion_ to boot. If you can kill one of the fuckers who kept you around for a couple months, that’d prove you aren’t working with them. To an extent.”

Vinci swallows. She had a feeling things would lead to this, that it would come to her being forced to put Farkas to a blade. But she has time. She has time. She does not intend to kill the man, though she knows she may have to hurt him to save his life. When Emile’s smile grows at her silence, the woman stares the Breton in the eye and snaps. “It would be my pleasure. Give me a blade and his neck.”

It feels good to see Emile stiffen at the bite in her words. For once, the fear is on his face. She makes a note of it for the future; it is good to discover how much a coward the enemy is.

“Tomorrow, then.” Krev’s voice rumbles across the room. The man eyes Vinci with anticipation. “You bring me the wolf’s head by noontime. We will welcome you as one of us. As a Silver Hand. I… look forward to it.”

 _Less than twenty-four hours._ Vinci maintains a firm, neutral expression as she gazes at Krev. Her eyes find an unsettling warmth and want in his eyes. He is greedy for her return. She can use that against him.

“Tomorrow, then.” Vinci repeats. She bows her head and exhales softly. “His head will be yours.”


	20. a little stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the companions won't be able to save farkas, so vinci has to do it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw menstruation  
> also a tw tulle brings up rape  
> and also implied abuse / torture when vinci finds farkas
> 
> thanks for reading ^_^  
> happy new year everyone!!

The same evening is more vivid than most. Vinci is fully aware of everything going on around her. She _must_ pay attention, because each detail of Fort Dunstad demands notice if she is to free Farkas from the Silver Hand’s dungeon. Things as minute as the splendor of drinks, the location of silverware, and the comb Tulle gave her become a tool in her arsenal. Vinci was one a capable woman. She intends to return to that, if only for a night. When Tulle and Vinci join other Silver Hands in a great dining hall to feast, she slips a steel fork into her pocket.

“I wanted to ask you about Jorrvaskr. The Companions.” Tulle sips her mead and looks at her sister. The woman’s eyes are powerful. They can just as easily intimidate as they can infer information.

Vinci haphazardly cuts into a slab of elk. The roast is not cooked well, but until she hears another Silver Hand complain she keeps the thoughts to herself. The woman spears a chunk with a new fork and frowns. “I thought I told you and Krev everything. But if there is something I missed—Or I need to elaborate on—You are welcome to ask. I have nothing to hide.”

 _Nothing to hide but a lot of lies._ She uses the opportunity to bite on the elk chunk. The meat has some flavor, but it is tough and chewy.

“We have a little bird in Jorrvaskr’s halls, Vinci. Nothing passes by us,” Tulle throws the statement into the open. “Nothing.”

Vinci fidgets in her seat. She jabs another piece of elk from her plate and waves it around. “And?”

“Tell me about Vilkas,” her older sister tilts her head to one side. Her eyes hold a curious, seeking gleam to them. “I understand he was assigned as your…”

“My jailor. The duty was later turned to a Companion named Ria. Apparently, I’m a big enough threat to warrant constant surveillance.” Vinci grimaces at the thought.

“You are a threat.” Tulle says calmly. She steals elk off Vinci’s plate and the woman gawks. Tulle snorts and a few Silver Hand members sitting further down the table chuckle and laugh to themselves.

The Silver Hand stares at her plate. “I wanted to eat that.”

“Sucks for you. Tell me, now.” Tulle clears her throat. “Our bird said a lot about what they saw of you in that loathsome mead hall. But it’s what’s gone outside the mead hall that interests us.”

The blush on Vinci’s face must be obvious, for Tulle whistles sharply and shakes her head. Vinci drops her utensils and clamps her hands over her cheeks. She feels horribly embarrassed and mortified to be so easily exposed over something as asinine as feelings. _I need to calm down. I need to calm down. I need to calm down. This means nothing. If they wanted me dead… I’d be dead. If they wanted to torture me… Emile would have already done it. More of it._

“Alright. I got to say, I’m disappointed that is true. But I don’t blame you. _Stockholm Syndrome_ is a thing,” Tulle rattles off words that do not make sense in Vinci’s mind. Her sister shrugs and leans back in her seat. “As long as you know that those emotions aren’t real: just a result of you being held hostage by the Companions for months. It is natural prisoners develop _feelings_ for their captors. But that does not make them true. Remember that. You are a Silver Hand first. This man, Vilkas, he is—”

“—A Companion, I know.” Vinci’s gaze dim.

She had not thought about her feelings developing due to being prisoner of the Companions. The woman did not think of it. She never once felt the same emotions toward the guards or Emile during her time as a prisoner of the Silver Hand. She never bonded or attached to the monsters in masks when she was _Leilani._ She doesn’t know how to approach the emotions she feels now. The Harbinger always said she wasn’t, but she knows better than to believe a man as manipulative as Kodlak Whitemane. A terrible thought dawns on the Silver Hand. _Did he say that so I would be open to growing attached to Vilkas? To Farkas? Rune? The rest? Was I always a prisoner?_

She cannot afford to have conflictions. She has made up her mind on what she intends to do. Regardless if she was or wasn’t a prisoner of the Companions, she cares for Farkas’s wellbeing based on his place in her childhood. The man did not do wrong by her, other than being a Companion. She does not want to see him die.

“Waiting,” Tulle hums patiently. Her sister is propped up on one elbow against the table.

“I felt safe with him.” Vinci states softly. Her eyes water. She _feels_ safe with him, but he isn’t there and the world returns to being a confusing mess. She inhales slowly. “I thought… Maybe he was different.”

It is true. Vilkas, Farkas, and possibly Rune are the only Companions she truly cares for. Two of them have roots in her childhood, in a place where no light penetrates and only cages are companions, while the other one intervened on her behalf without ever having reason to. She thought, and she _thinks_ , they are not the same as the rest of the loud-mouthed, rowdy residents of the mead hall. The only other individual there worth half a damn is possibly Tilma; the quiet old housekeeper is always around offering a hand to…

 _Tilma. It’s Tilma. She’s their little bird._ Vinci takes the opportunity to shovel a new piece of elk into her mouth and chew. It buys her time to think and consider her reaction, her response, and how to give away hints while hiding away her actual feelings. _That’s bad for them. I wonder why they don’t ask her to poison the food. Maybe that would be too obvious? Is she important to one of the leaders here? Maybe important enough to not want to risk losing, even if it would be the best option from a Silver Hand’s perspective…_

“Did he rape you?” Tulle asks the question with sincere concern.

Vinci feels her stomach drop at the thought. “No. No. No—He—He kissed me. He didn’t… we didn’t…”

Her older sister exhales in relief. “If any of them violated you in such a manner—I swear by it, we will drag the bastard here and split dicks down the middle. Lop off breasts and ass until they understand a Silver Hand is no prize to plunder. We are emissaries of Stendarr! We have sworn to defend mortals from the influence of Daedra, from the wrath of immortal foes.”

 _He promised to protect me._ Vinci chews another bite of elk. She gazes across the table, counting heads silently as her thoughts continue. _He wouldn’t hurt me, Tulle._

She does not know what to think about her feelings toward the man. She was positive she was starting to make progress on unraveling the inner workings of _Vinci_ , but Tulle’s comments about a captive’s tendency to fall in love with one of their captors strikes a nerve. She does not know if she has or has not repeated that scenario. For all the times she thought she experienced genuine bliss with the werewolf, she could just so easily been attempting to cope with the fact she was a prisoner of the Companions. She can’t get the thought out of her head.

Maybe it is all made up.

Maybe she doesn’t care about Vilkas the Companion.

Her stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. She looks at Tulle and finds her older sister watches her closely. Vinci offers a polite smile. She keeps her gaze level and her voice calm as she states, “Vilkas… is a thing of the past, now. I’m a Silver Hand. I’m home.”

Tulle appears satisfied with the answer. She nods and wraps an arm around her sister. “By Stendarr himself, I am happy you can sit at our table and eat with us again.”

She is treated to a nightmare the first evening. It begins as a dream of a familiar tree in the grounds of Whiterun, but it soon morphs to the terrifying mouthed monstrosity of the decaying Gildergreen. Vinci finds herself thrashing and kicking against the tree as it reaches for her dream self’s body. No sooner than the tree meets her does the entire dream plunge into a horrifying darkness, deeper and thicker than any shadows or night shroud Vinci has ever seen. It is worse than the Silver Hand’s cells. It is more permeable and choking than the darkness Leilani lived and died under.

In the darkness, Vinci sees a feminine figure born of repulsion and nausea. The individual’s details are too dark to make out against the impenetrable, perforating black void around her. But she knows the figure is there. She can make out the lady’s outline. She knows the woman’s name.

“Hello, Leilani,” the Ancient Darkness croons in her ear.

Vinci tries to throw herself back. She feels cold around her. She feels weak and lightheaded. “Go away.”

“I can’t. Not tonight. Not _tonight_ , my dear.” The Mistress of Decay beckons.

 _A woman’s coming._ The words from twenty years ago ring out in her mind as the dream rolls forward, the figure stepping close and invading Vinci’s space. _Namira. She’s called Namira._

She is face-to-face with a Daedric Prince. Her body goes still from a response of _freeze_ , too overwhelmed to try and run or fight back. In a dream—what good would it do? She stares at Namira’s featureless form and fights the urge to vomit. The nightmare descends on her with the Prince’s unsettling, sweet tone. “—You want to save him.”

 _Farkas._ Namira refers to Farkas. How she knows is beyond Vinci. Vinci does not care. She wants to wake up. She needs to wake up. She needs to help Farkas!

“But you can’t. You’re… weak.” Namira remarks coolly. She ruffles Vinci’s long black hair. “Look at you. Helpless… hapless… I could help you. I could give you what you need. _Strength. Power._ You want to help your friend, Leilani.”

“I’m Vinci.” She whispers.

The Daedric Prince laughs. “And I’m Sheogorath, Prince of Madness and Harbinger of Entropy! No, I know what you are. I know who you are. We’re closer to each other than you think. It’s how I am here… in the mind of a waking world walker. You are difficult to reach. You build so many walls. But I… get through all of them.”

The hesitation in Vinci’s demeanor makes Namira _cackle_. Vinci flinches backward, fearful and afraid of the Ancient Darkness and all that lays within. There is something disgusting in its depths. She is left aghast at the fact it is familiar to her.

“I know what you will say. You are… strong enough to resist us,” the Daedric Prince dawdles on the words, tip-toeing a line between sense and catastrophe. “but I want you to know I’m _here_ , Leilani. I’m here… I won’t hurt _you_. I want to protect you.”

“I don’t believe you.” The Silver Hand whispers. “I don’t believe anyone. Not right now. Not now.”

“Then don’t, but it won’t change anything. I’ll still be here, Leilani. I’ll be waiting to help you. _Protect_ you. You say my name…” The figure fades into the darkness, dispersing and dissipating from view.

Vinci wakes up with a jolt. She is on a spare cot dragged into Tulle’s quarters. When she sits up, she sees her sister is gone. The woman’s brows furrow and she hangs her legs off the cot side. She feels cold sweat on her brow, the back of her neck, and on her palms. She bites her lip and rubs her forehead. She can’t remember having a nightmare involving an Ancient Darkness. She recalls reading, a very long time ago when she was a late teenager and Reeves was alive, that some Daedra are capable of projecting images and visions on the minds of sleeping mortals. It is one of the things her adopted father warned her of; reality is not clean-cut and smooth to the eye, it has folds like a long stretch of fabric where secrets of the universe are hidden away.

 _What does the Ancient Darkness want with me?_ Vinci holds her head in her hands. She winces. A terrible headache crawls on her and her head throbs with pain. When it doesn’t leave, she opts to rise and look around. She finds a pair of clean breeches and a cleaner shirt to change into. The woman takes care to slip her fork from her old pants pocket to the new one. She clips a belt around her waist and pokes around Tulle’s room. It looks like a temporary residence; she remembers Tulle speaking about the different leaders of the Silver Hand holding authority over bands of men. She imagines Tulle’s Silver Hands are at a different encampment or fort. Vinci’s gaze dims at the thought. _So many of them. It was never this big before. But… Then again… ‘Before’ was ten years ago._

She has until noontime to free Farkas or find a way to delay the execution until she _can_ free Farkas. The woman looks for keys in Tulle’s room but finds none. She finds an extra longsword in a scabbard; the woman holds it up and tentatively draws the blade. It feels familiar. She does not remember how to use it, but her muscles have a memory of their own. She feels out hefting it up, pointing it at a wall, and taking a shaky strike. It feels right, holding the two-metal blade in her grasp. She sees now—she would not be able to make a longsword straight out of Whiterun. There is a craftsmanship to smithing a silver-steel weapon, one that she needs more practice to achieve. She gives the sword one last admiring look before putting it away and placing the sheathed weapon back where she found it.

 _I can’t break Farkas out like this._ The thought looms overhead. _I still don’t have armor. And he… is he even in walking condition? I don’t know. I didn’t see him on the way in._

She needs to delay the execution and gather more supplies. The woman glances at the door. She doubts sneaking around Fort Dunstad at early morning hours would go over well with _any_ of the Silver Hand leaders. Sneaking out of a designated resting place at such an hour ought to be carrying a great ball of magicka that spells out, _I’m a traitor! Coming to free your prisoner! Stab you all in the back!_

She looks at the sword. _Would they believe me if I said I had cramps? That I was bleeding? Take pity on me? If they wouldn’t… it wouldn’t matter, anyways. Farkas would be executed. But what else can I do? I can’t seduce them._

The thought alone of trying makes her feel ill. She knows Krev would be suspicious, and she suspects Emile would follow suit. The latter might bed her first just to rub it in. Vinci feels extra queasy even considering what Emile looks like nude. The woman shoves the thought away; her heart belongs to a different individual, even if she isn’t fully sure whether those feelings are real or a byproduct of her time spent as the Companion’s prisoner. Vinci picks up the sword and exhales sharply.

 _I need there to be blood to be… convincing…_ The woman unsheathes the sword. She flips it toward herself and looks over her body. She slips out of her pants momentarily to expose her thighs. The woman grabs a pillow to bite down into before she makes a sharp horizontal cut against her flesh. She hisses and growls at the sting that erupts, instantly calling tears from her eyes. She bleeds. The wound gaps open but she lets it bleed into her breeches and blankets. She wipes off the sword and puts it away through shaking hands. Blood drips unto the floor and she takes a moment to wipe up what might give away what she’s doing.

She crawls back into her cut, applies pressure on the injury, and waits.

It is another hour before Tulle returns to the room. Something about the woman is off. She is not upset—far from it, if the glow on her face is anything to go off—but her hair is disheveled, her blouse on backwards, and she is missing one sock. Vinci stares from her cot. Tulle shuts the door behind her and spins around, happier than a mudcrab in the mud. The two Silver Hand members lock eyes. Tulle smiles. “Ah, you’re awake! Ready for the big day?”

“You had sex.” Vinci comments dryly.

“Yeah, good morning to you too.” Tulle rolls her eyes. “We’re adults, Vinci. Some of us have _sex_.”

It provides an opportunity to transition into the loss of blood from her upper thigh. Vinci clenches her teeth and clutches her stomach beneath her blankets. “Not all of us can _right now!”_

“What are you…” Her sister’s eyes widen when Vinci shifts the blanket to show a deep crimson stain, “Really?”

 _“I don’t control it!”_ The Silver Hand barks. She flops back unto her pillow and squeezes her eyes shut. “I want to find a hole. Drop in it. Hide for a day. Maybe two.”

“Okay, uh, well.” Tulle whistles softly. The blond Nord runs a hand through her hair. It is out of its braid, another hint at her expenditures from the early hours. The woman walks to a dresser and begins picking through it. “You took some of my clothes.”

“I _had_ to. Last night. My clothes were soaked in sweat. Grime. I needed to sleep in something _clean.”_

“And get my shit dirty? I expect these to be washed later. No, second thought, you can keep them. Just… Gah.” Tulle sighs. “Can you stand? Lift a sword? Do I need to drag Krev and Emile into this?”

“No! No… I can…” Vinci makes to rise. She throws her weight unto the injured leg and crashes out of bed. The woman howls in pain and grabs her side. She forces through clenched teeth. “I can do it! _Tulle!”_

“Uh-huh.” Her sister helps her back into the cot. “Listen, we have people in the Silver Hand who go through this every month. Some have it light. Some… don’t. If you’re one of the latter—It is what it is. I’ll… see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Vinci calls out softly.

She flops into her cot the second Tulle leaves, in disbelief her plan might work. She isn’t sure where to go from there, but she buys extra time to think. Emile and Krev both stop by to check on her in that time, and Vinci shows freshly-stained fabrics to the two men. She isn’t a fool; she knows Emile wants to catch her in a lie, and Krev comes by only out of suspicion—not of concern. Though she sees the disappointment in Krev’s eyes, the execution is put off a time. It brings some comfort to know Krev wants _her_ to execute Farkas, not any ordinary Silver Hand. The woman does not have to fear the Silver Hand jumping the crossbow and killing Farkas while she is “out of commission.”

But it only buys an extra day. Tulle comes to her in the evening, conveniently after Vinci’s finished putting on clean clothes and getting in bed with a clean blanket, holding a handful of small vials. The Silver Hand leader clears her throat when she enters, drawing Vinci’s attention immediately. Vinci watches Tulle with a mix of unease and curiosity as her older sister pulls a chair over. “Okay, I talked to Krev. Look, he _understands_ some people bleed. But that doesn’t make it easier waiting. I asked him about any extra potions we got on hand to help… I know people don’t usually take healing potions for menstruating… but if it helps, it helps.”

Vinci is handed a vial of red liquid. She takes it and uncaps the vial. The smell is pungent. The woman looks at her sister. “It isn’t expired?”

“Well. You'll find out. C’mon, drink up.” Tulle nods at her. “You got a wolf to kill in the morning. One way or another, that bastard is gonna drop.”

 _So they’ll kill Farkas. With or without me. I can’t stall any longer._ Vinci offers her sister a thin smile. She thanks her, pinches her nose, and swallows the repulsive liquid. The woman grabs her side and wheezes from the wretched taste. She can feel chunks touch the back of her throat as the brew goes down. _“What_ do they put in that?”

“Blisterwart, probably. It is standard in alchemy recipes, at least for healing potions.” Tulle looks at the two remaining vials in her hand. She pauses. “…If you’ve bled two days… How many days does yours last? On a good month.”

“Five days.” Vinci counts on her fingers. She has no idea; she’s taken Arcadia’s brews for most of the past three months.

“Yeah, then you should take this one, too. For the morning. I’ll keep the third. You can have it if you _need_ it—But if you don’t—I don’t want to waste it. Potions aren’t things you want to waste dilly-dally.” Tulle huffs. She presses a second healing potion into Vinci’s hands and waves her off. “A’right, try to get some rest. I’ll be in and out throughout the night.”

 _Throughout the night. What does that mean?_ Vinci waits for her sister to depart for the evening. She forces herself to remain awake, to _linger_ and run off the pounding of her heart. _I must assume she will not be back as soon as she expects. I must assume she will take her time._ She staggers up. The gash in her thigh finally healed and shut thanks to the potion given earlier, something Vinci is now grateful for. She throws on socks but no boots. She knows how loud the boots can be on a stone floor. The woman breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the sheathed silver-steel longsword tucked in the same place it was before.

 _Tulle trusts me a lot. Not all the way. But… a lot._ She bites her lip and attaches the sheathed weapon to her belt. It feels good to carry it on her hip. It feels wonderful to know the blade is _just_ in reach when she will need it, and she knows she will need it.

She puts the healing potion in the pocket that does not have a fork.

Vinci breaths out at the darkness of Fort Dunstad’s halls. Save for Silver Hands holding torches, and starlight from above, there is darkness. But it provides Vinci with a much-needed advantage. She sees _silver._ The masses of guards, even those holding torches, are faintly visible and walking around. It gives her a piss-poor headache, but she looks, and she _stares,_ until her eyes water and tears snake down her cheeks from the pain. She wipes her eyes and flinches at the sight of a silver mass turning a corner up ahead. The woman panics and looks around. She presses herself flat against the door and holds her breath until the silver mass turns in to a private quarter up the hall. When the corridor is clear, she sneaks her way to the main hall. It is empty; most silver shapes linger on cots at the hour, enjoying a moment’s respite from work.

The woman treads softly to the fort’s massive double-doors. She tentatively pushes one door open a crack, enough to peek out and stare into the darkness. She waits a minute for a Silver Hand guard to pass, then shoves the door open enough to creep outside. In her thin clothes, the outside is _terribly_ cold. She shivers and shakes as she sneaks along the edge of the fort walls. Her goal pops into sight: a lone set of stairs tucked into a corner directly next to the rising walls of a watchtower. Vinci holds her breath and treads the stairs slowly. Seeing silver makes things easier, but beyond physical, tangible objects her silver sight begins to waver in visibility. She can make out two silver masses past the doors to Fort Dunstad’s dungeon.

 _Neither look like Farkas._ She swallows her fears. He will be alive. She will find him alive.

The dungeons of Fort Dunstad are bleak and dark. It works for Vinci; though her skin is a dead giveaway, she finds her hair blends in well to the shadows. The woman takes note of the layout: the dungeon stretches across a massive chamber with two halls stretching to the side. She can make out the start of cells in the northern-most hall. The eastern corridor is short; she can creep around the common area enough to spy a door at the end of the east hall. The woman assumes it leads to another floor, or perhaps to a torture room. Either are possible when dealing with the Silver Hand. Vinci bites her lip.

There are two drunk Silver Hands playing a game with cards and dice at a table in the corner. One is a woman she vaguely remembers as being a woman named Friva, an unusually meek Silver Hand whose obedience knows no limits. She cannot recognize the other Silver Hand.

 _But it’s better that way._ Vinci grabs loose gravel, picks out the largest pebbles, and dumps the rest back on the ground. She bites her lips, looks at the east hall, and reels back. _Because I have to kill you._

She chucks a pebble to the east hall. The sound draws the attention of both drunk guards immediately. Friva blinks and stares in confusion while the other Silver Hand grunts loudly and mumbles, “Go get it. It. The… Someone at the door? Someone would be at the door. Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah… East door…” Friva’s face has a deep red to it. Vinci wonders what compelled the woman to drink so heavily.

When Friva rises and teeters her way to the eastern hall, Vinci waits for the second Silver Hand to turn back to her cards. She draws her sword quietly and sneaks forward. The second Silver Hand picks up Friva’s hand of cards, looks at them, snorts, and sets them back down. Vinci hopes the swordswoman is amused by the sight, because it is the last thing the latter sees before Vinci raises her silver-steel blade and brings it down on the woman. It does not feel good to strike a distracted, weakened foe down. Vinci grimaces at the gush of _red_ that spews when she withdraws her blade. She hears a gasp come from the side and she spins on her heels to find Friva staring at her.

The second Silver Hand’s corpse thuds loudly as it hits the ground. Blood pools underneath it.

“You… You… You…” Friva mumbles over-and-over. The drunk woman pulls a massive great sword from a scabbard at her waist. The sword bumps into other tables and chairs as the Silver Hand hefts it up and points it at Vinci. “ _How could you?_ ”

Then Friva is on Vinci like a sabre cat on a fox. Vinci exhales sharply and throws herself to the side in time to avoid the first strike. She does not anticipate Friva’s nimbleness; her muscle memory is the only thing keeping her alive when Friva whirls around and slashes at her. Her hands shove her longsword up in time to parry most of the blow. The impact forces Vinci backward and she loses grip of her sword. It clangs loudly to the ground while she stumbles and trips over a barrel. The woman’s adrenaline pumps through her veins; she rolls to the side and scrambles to her feet while she hears Friva’s drunken curses.

“Down! Stay _down!”_ Friva rattles off. The Silver Hand charges Vinci and Vinci opts to leap over a table and shove it at her. The drunk woman protests loudly in sounds that aren’t full comprehensible when the table’s silverware and glasses fall and crash to her feet. Vinci dives for her longsword and turns in time to bring the weapon up.

The great sword’s strikes _hurt_. Vinci grits her teeth. _How in Oblivion do people beat these things?_

The answer comes unexpectedly when Friva begins another charge. Vinci tries to sidestep but it is anticipated. Not even muscle memory can stop Friva’s great sword from crashing against her longsword’s blade and flinging it from her grasp. In a burst of panic, Vinci does the only thing she thinks of: the woman throws herself at Friva and tackles her to the ground. The great sword falls from the drunk woman’s grasp. What begins as a yell of surprise delves into a series of grunts as Vinci grips the woman’s throat and squeezes Friva’s windpipe for all its worth. She ignores the woman grabbing at her arms, the wheezing, and the stillness that follows. Even after the body goes limp: Vinci continues to strangle the corpse until no hint of silver lingers.

She releases Friva’s dead body, stands, and exhales sharply. She grabs her longsword and glances around the dungeons. No silver moves to the dungeon’s door, but she knows Silver Hands will eventually come to change watch. She jogs to the north hall and peeks inside. There is cell upon cell, encompassing six on each side of lengthy corridor. Only one cell has silver, and that is the cell at the end of the cellblock. Vinci’s green eyes widen as she grabs a torch off a wall and approaches the cell containing a badly mutilated man.

“Farkas?” Vinci calls softly.

The man does not look up. Vinci can see his silver as a faint mass closer to _gray_ , nowhere near as bright as it should be. She tries the door: locked. She runs back to the two dead Silver Hand guards and fishes through the bodies’ clothes for keys. One of them has a set of keys on a ring at their belt. She exhales sharply and jogs back to Farkas’s cell. She sets the torch nearby. The woman begins trying key-after-key-after-key. It takes three keys for her to find the correct one to Farkas’s lock. The door is solid steel; she huffs and puffs pulling it open.

Vinci inhales the scent of blood when she enters the cell. Her eyes dim. She tries the keys on the manacles locking Farkas to the cell. The man groans softly in pain. It is a horrible sound; it reminds her too much of him as a child. She would sing, but she fears dawdling more than necessary. When none of the keys open Farkas’s shackles, Vinci takes a second to uncap her healing potion. She tips Farkas’s head back and struggles to dump the liquid into his mouth. She gingerly presses against his throat and jaw until the semi-conscious man swallows. Her focus returns to the manacles. With nothing left to try, she pulls her fork from its pocket and jams it into the manacles’ lock. As she messes with the lock, she hears gasps and terrified intakes of air.

“Shh, shh,” Vinci frowns. “It’s okay—Farkas—I’m here. Just… Just me.”

“No more,” the man pleads softly.

“There’s not gonna be any more,” Vinci jumps when Farkas lifts his head to stare at her. His eyes are bloodshot. His skin is caked in dried blood. She bites her lip. “You’re getting out of here.”

The eyes are full of disbelief. “Leilani?”

Vinci stiffens. She struggles to think of a response and instead turns back to the manacles and her fork. “I need you to listen to me. Okay? I’m—You are gonna escape, Farkas. I need you to pay attention. Okay?”

“How are… alive?” She hears the werewolf’s words babble on.

Vinci exhales softly when the manacles pop open. She drops the fork in time to catch Farkas’s body. She hefts him to his feet and holds him up until the man feels steady. He groans. She frowns. “Potion help at all?”

“What was in it?” Farkas holds his head in his hands.

“I have no idea.” Vinci confesses. “Can you think?”

“Kinda.” The man grunts softly. He pauses, looks at her, at himself, and freezes.

Vinci keeps her gaze _up_. “I’m not looking. Now’s not the time for modesty. I know you don’t like transforming—but I need you to. Into a werewolf, Farkas.”

The man fidgets where he stands. Vinci looks around and spots a cot in an adjacent cell. She tries the door; it is unlocked. The woman hefts the sheet off the cot and returns to hand it to Farkas. The man gratefully wraps it around his waist. “…thanks.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Vinci’s gaze dims. “I need you to become a werewolf.”

“Why?” Farkas stares at her.

Vinci bites her lip. She gestures for Farkas to follow her back to the common area. She doesn’t look when he pulls clothes off the two corpses. The second Silver Hand, the woman she did not know, has armor fitting his torso, arms, and feet, but not the legs.

“This place is called Fort Dunstad,” Vinci says quietly. Her gaze shifts to the dungeon door. She walks to it and presses an ear to the door’s keyhole. When she hears nothing, and sees no silver shapes beyond it, she looks back at Farkas. “I think—I think there’s three major forts to the Silver Hand. Each one’s got its own leader. But Krev—Krev the Skinner—He’s the one the other two obey without fail.”

Farkas does not know what the words mean. Vinci does not blame him; she remembers being confused and overwhelmed by _relief_ and disbelief when Vilkas and Ria first freed her and carried her from the compound three months prior. She imagines his mind is a whirl of thoughts, feelings, and confusion. She bites her lip.

“The Fort has a gate. I remember Tulle mentioned it on the journey here. It is lever-operated, and only one of the watch towers has extra guards. It should be there.”

“Tulle?”

“My older sister.” It’s a soft-spoken confession, one Vinci did not think would be so hard to acknowledge in front of a Companion. She looks to the side. “She’s one of the Silver Hand’s leaders. Emile is the third.”

The thought of the man makes her shiver.

Farkas has a gentle gaze. He’s always been a softhearted boy, and she sees how he has grown into a gentle giant of a man. He deserves freedom. Her choices tonight will be worth whatever consequences find her.

“I’m going to open the gate. You transform into a werewolf and run out.” Vinci says firmly.

Farkas pauses. She sees a thought cross the man’s mind. “Rune. Where is—”

“The Companions traded my life for his; he’s in Whiterun. I don’t… know about anyone else.” The Silver Hand exhales sharply. “We can’t waste any more time.”

“What about you, Leilani?” The man’s eyes are full of concern.

Vinci looks to the side. “I’m Vinci. Not Leilani. Now’s… There’s not time. You’re going out the gate. I’m opening the gate.”

“But what’s gonna happen to you?” Farkas stares.

Vinci grits her teeth. She grows restless with the conversation, knowing any second could be one too many in getting Farkas out. The woman shakes her head. “ _Don’t worry about it._ I can handle myself. We need to get you out. They will kill you if you stay here.”

To her relief—Farkas does not argue further. She imagines he is used to orders, whether they be suggestions from Kodlak or words from his brother. Vinci checks outside the dungeon door. She exhales softly and holds the door open, pointing at a corner by the gate where barrels offer ample cover from passing eyes. The woman waits for Farkas to sneak to the hiding spot before she turns her attention to the lever. She recalls seeing the number of guards being exponential around the eastern watch tower. The woman grimaces at the thought of the climb.

She doesn’t grimace long, because her attention wanes long enough to miss a mass of silver around one corner of the fort. She runs smack into the face of a person capable of freezing Oblivion over. Emile staggers backward and curses sharply. The Breton rubs his head while Vinci holds her and groans. Vinci freezes at the sound of the man’s voice and her gaze trails up. Emile’s eyes darken and he grabs her by the wrist before she can run. “What is a rat doing up?”

“I felt better—” Vinci whispers.

Emile tightens his grip. He hisses. “Oh, _did you?_ All better now? So ya went for a little stroll?”

“I needed fresh air!” Vinci’s eyes begin to water. The proximity reminds her how much she fears the man. The proximity reminds her how weak she still is. She got lucky with two drunk Silver Hands. She knows she cannot beat Emile in a fight.

 _Farkas will die if I fail._ The words provoke a surge of anger through the woman. She begins to tremble and shake in Emile’s hand. The man snorts, but Vinci refuses to let him win. _Not this time._

The woman slams her head into his face. He begins cussing in pain and releases her while her vision spins. She draws her longsword and slashes at him but the man ducks. He hisses. “You _bitch!_ ”

Vinci grits her teeth and brings her sword up in time for Emile’s first strike. The man’s shortswords are in both his hands in a second. Emile effortlessly blocks her blade with one sword while he jabs the other at her gut. She shrieks in pain when it connects. She shoves him backward and throws her longsword at him in the progress. Emile dives to the side; it is an opportunity to run. Vinci bolts for the eastern watchtower without a care for sneak or stealth. The woman sprints past confused Silver Hands and throws herself at the watchtower’s ladder. She kicks at a hand that tries to grab her and finds a moment’s satisfaction in Emile’s cussing. When she hears a crossbow being loaded, she offers a prayer to the Divines and climbs faster. A bolt impales in her left leg and she clings to the ladder as the leg gives and hangs limp with blood dribbling down its side. She hauls herself up with her good leg and arms.

The top of the watchtower has three alert Silver Hands. She gasps when they haul her up and pin her to a table. She cries out in pain when their weight crushes her body unto the table’s surface.

“We got her!” A Silver Hand woman calls down the ladder.

Vinci’s eyes water. She sees the lever, built into the watchtower’s stone walls. _But I’m there. I’m right…there._

A terrifying howl breaks the night air, signaling a beast's transformation. The three Silver Hands curse and one loosens their grip enough for Vinci to throw her weight back against the individual. She topples to the ground in a mess of limbs and drags herself to the side. The woman rips her sword scabbard off her belt and jams it at the lever, forcing it up and prompting the mechanism to turn. The gate opens with surprised shouts of guards and confusion between the Silver Hands in the tower.

She screams when a Silver Hand jams a silver dagger into her hand and pins her palm to the wooden floor. She bellows in agony when Emile finishes the climb to the top and stomps the crossbow bolt in her leg further into the bone. Adrenaline can only fend off the pain for so long, but the pain carries some satisfaction.

Even as Emile looms over her with hateful eyes, Vinci’s gaze drifts to his. Her lips twitch up and she whispers, “The _bitch_ wins.”


	21. try not to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dragonborn has recuperated at jorrvaskr. there's a lot to talk about with the harbinger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for implied child abuse / imprisonment talking about cult of namira / the forgotten ones

Jorrvaskr smells of sorrow and alcohol, primarily the latter if Vilkas has anything to do with it. Rune finds it a welcome change from the cells he was given the honor of residing in during his time with the Silver Hands. Anything is better than the disease-riddled, fecal-stricken cellblock. Part of him remains amazed he didn’t die of cholera or dysentery during his captivity. He knows his immune system is shit. Though Rune remains uncertain where he stands on worshipping the Divines, he offers them a silent prayer nonetheless for keeping his ass intact. Death by diarrhea is a crappy way to go.

He does not know how Vinci lasted ten years of imprisonment, but Rune is smart enough to recognize mentioning her around Vilkas is a terrible idea. He leaves the werewolf alone and keeps to himself, save for small talk with the other Companions. His initial days back in the mead hall are a mess of healers running in and out, potions being shoved down his throat, and Arcadia’s constant remarks that the Companions will receive a bill later. But he is alive. He lives, he breathes, and he recoups surrounded by the people he calls friends and Shield-Siblings.

 _Well… most of them._ The man’s brows furrow as he looks across the mead hall. He does not deny the ache in his chest at Farkas’s absence. The two often sit together when not off on separate tasks. To not have the werewolf present at his side makes him antsy. _Who else will listen to my spiels? No one else has the patience._

“Dragonborn,” Kodlak’s voice makes him perk up in his chair. The elderly man stops near his chair and smiles. “Do you mind…?”

“Not at all.” Rune flashes a smile. The man runs a hand through his messy brown hair and watches the Harbinger take a seat next to him.

The Harbinger looks tired. Everyone looks tired. Even _he_ looks tired, and he has the soul of a dragon.

“I’m pleased to see you are doing well.” The Harbinger offers a nod. “All of us were worried for you, Companion.”

“Well. I’m here. I’m still kicking. It isn’t easy to slay a dragon. Especially if this is dungeons and dragons, those fuckers fly,” the man rattles off words he knows Kodlak does not understand. He appreciates the fact the Harbinger nods as if he does. It makes Rune feel a little less detached from the whole of Skyrim. Rune tilts his head to one side. “Are you… You sure you want to talk here, Harbinger? Is this a conversation we need to have in private? ‘Cause we could take a walk. Skyforge offers a nice view.”

“It does, it does. But no. I am comfortable here. My bones grow older with each passing day, Dragonborn.” Kodlak nods.

A thought crosses the Dragonborn’s mind. His eyes flit around the hall. He spots Ria off refereeing a drinking match between Torvar and Athis. He spies Njada Stonearm talking quietly with Brill. Vignar is asleep in a chair in a corner. A new whelp, an overexcited Redguard man named Filre Donovan, stuffs his face with bread rolls and fruit like it is his final meal. He does not see Tilma, but reckons she is in the living quarters downstairs. The man grimaces. _A little bird. Huh, Tulle? Which of them is it?_

Rune leans over to Kodlak and states quietly. “They have ears.”

The Harbinger stiffens. Kodlak frowns and glances across the hall before returning his gaze at Rune. “You’re sure of this?”

“The Silver Hand Leader told me.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Kodlak rises to his feet and brushes himself off. Rune does the same. When the Harbinger gestures, Rune follows him out of Jorrvaskr and into the chilly autumn day. The Harbinger walks to the empty sparring grounds. The older Companion glances at the Dragonborn and purses his lips. “Gallow’s Rock, then. If you are… comfortable discussing it, Rune. I would like to know what occurred.”

“Skjor went ahead without a Shield-Sibling. They killed him right away,” Rune bites his lip. “I heard you lot got the head here. Guess that Silver Hand woman wasn’t kidding about sending it as an invitation.”

“Came wrapped in butcher’s paper.” Kodlak exhales.

The thought makes Rune shudder. “That’s…”

“Ria broke down in tears. She also found your horse. The Hold Guards have her in the stables.” Kodlak nods.

The thought of seeing _his_ horse, of seeing dear, darling Kelloggs again, offers a scrap of comfort. Rune looks out across the training grounds. “I’ll be sure to thank her. I… I wondered what they did to all the horses. Farkas had one named Charcoal. Aela and Skjor had two of their own. I’m glad Kelloggs is alive, but what of the others?”

“No sign of them. But if they were good horses—there’s no point to wasting them. Silver Hand probably took the animals as prizes.” Kodlak says. He clasps his hands behind his back and peers at Rune. “You said Skjor went on ahead. That is not like him.”

“Aela said it was fine because she could hear his howl. She could smell him. That’s the thing—He _should_ have been fine. But the Silver Hand’s not as weak as they were at Dustman’s Cairn. They have crossbows and silver bolts. Probably shot him to death before he had a chance to react.” The Dragonborn feels heavy and burdened by the thought of the man dying so suddenly and alone, without a Shield-Sibling to offer company, comfort, or a last rite. Rune frowns. “I don’t know _how_ they baited Farkas and Aela. I was off on my own—” at the Harbinger’s glance, the Dragonborn growls. “—I’m not one of _you,_ Harbinger, it was safer for them to hang back and me investigate on my own.”

“I see.” Kodlak’s brows furrows.

Rune sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “Anyways. I heard a howl. Found Aela transformed and Farkas unconscious… with multiple Silver Hands. Their crossbows can pierce a lot of armor. We need better equipment to face them. They have an advantage over anyone not wearing… I’d say anyone not wearing glass, or dwarven metal. It cut through Farkas’s armor and he has, what? Steel? Skyforge Steel?”

“Eorlund’s finest work.” The Harbinger confirms.

“—Can he work the Skyforge with Dwarven metal if I bring him scrap?” Rune crosses his arms. The Dragonborn frowns. “I know where to find some. I can bring enough for multiple suits. If you give me time, I can mine the ores necessary to forge glass armor.”

“A shame we have to step away from our roots of _Steel_. But I understand why,” Kodlak sighs deeply. He nods at Rune’s words. “I will speak to Eorlund on behalf of the Companions. Take a Shield-Sibling with you, Dragonborn. Do not make the mistake Skjor did. We cannot risk losing more.”

The Dragonborn nods. “I was thinking of asking Vilkas to come. He has the muscle I need to help haul everything back.”

“It would be good for him to get his mind off recent events.” Kodlak’s eyes dim.

“So—It’s true, then. Vilkas and the Silver Hand—”

“Became very close.” Kodlak cuts him off.

Rune frowns. The man looks to the side. “Are either of them alive now, Harbinger? Farkas. Vinci.”

“I don’t know. But,” Kodlak pauses. The man rubs his beard between two fingers. “I think… No. I know they have reason to keep Vinci alive. I fear what that reason may be. A faction as violent and cruel as the Silver Hand does not leave prisoners alive for no reason. But Farkas,” the Harbinger pauses and looks at him.

Rune’s eyes dim.

Kodlak tilts his head to the side. “We are all worried about him. But… perhaps the only one worried more than you is Vilkas. That is still a lot of concern to carry around, Dragonborn.”

“I care a lot about him.” Rune feels his cheeks dust pink regardless. The Imperial man rubs the back of his head and looks away, though he knows Kodlak’s eyes miss nothing.

“Don’t let worry overwhelm you.” Kodlak’s eyes are soft when Rune finally turns his sights back to the older man. “We can only hope for the best and strive to move forward. Some things are out of our hands.”

“I know. I’m just,” Rune rubs his forehead. He throws his hands into the air and sighs loudly. “I just _dislike_ not having a say in it. In… things hurting my fellow Companions, my Shield-Siblings. In our lives, in our deaths. It reminds me too much of home. I think—I think the faster I get on the road to _Irkngthand_ —The faster I feel like I am contributing to something. Getting control over the mess happening right now. I want to go find scrap, beat up automatons, and bring back a huge cache for Eorlund to melt down and smith. _Then_ I’ll feel better. _Then_ I’ll be okay.”

“Then you should get started on that.” Kodlak hums thoughtfully. The man gestures at Jorrvaskr. “—I cannot offer any advice on convincing Vilkas to join you. But I know if there is anyone capable of talking to the man, it is the Dragonborn.”

“I think I’m still Dragonborn. Hang on,” Rune sucks in a breath. He sees the Harbinger’s eyes widen and he laughs at the man clamping hands over his ears. The Dragonborn chuckles heartily and pats Kodlak on the arm. “Okay, okay. I won’t. I’m not that big an asshole yet. Njada can’t rub off on me.”

The Harbinger exhales slowly. “Your Shield-Sister has her own struggles.”

“She does. I whispered _laas yah nir_ earlier and saw two red auras.” Rune yawns.

“She is with Vilkas’s child.” Kodlak explains.

Rune squints. “I—Really? Him and Njada? You just said—”

“It’s a mess of his own doing.”

“I’ll be sure not to mention it. Anything else I need to know about our dear Shield-Brother before I drag his ass off to an ancient dwarven ruin to battle robots?” It amuses Rune greatly to see Kodlak pause and contemplate what exactly a _robot_ is. The Dragonborn chuckles under his breath and waves the Harbinger off. “Don’t worry about it!”

“Would you consider taking another Shield-Sibling with you?” The question comes just before Rune turns to head back into Jorrvaskr.

The Dragonborn huffs. He spins on his heels and eyes Kodlak. “If you’re talking about the whelp—I’m not sure _I_ have the patience for his energy. Not with all this stress. It might be best to stick Ria on him.”

“Not Filre, oh no,” Kodlak smiles at the thought. The elder shakes his head. “It may be wise to consider asking Torvar and Athis to come. If the four of you took a wagon and horses—Would it not allow you bring more back? Give you more eyes and ears against bandits?”

The man considers it. Rune whistles sharply. “Yeah, yeah, that is true. Will you be alright here, Harbinger? Right now, there’s no Circle. Farkas isn’t here. Are you safe at Jorrvaskr?”

“Ah, trust me, there is no hall more well-protected than this one, Dragonborn. Jarl Balgruuf and the citizens of Whiterun would protect these grounds with their lives—”

“That’s not what I’m asking. C’mon.” Rune crosses his arms. The man eyes Kodlak with concern. “Would they protect you with their lives?”

“You are kind to care for my wellbeing, Rune. But do not let the worry overwhelm you. I am an old man. One day death will come, and no one will be able to stop it. Do not fear it as an end,” Kodlak pats Rune on the shoulder. “Anticipate it as a new beginning.”

 _Anticipate death as a new beginning._ Rune does not know if he agrees with that. The man bites his lip and looks to the side. “You know—I don’t come from Skyrim, Kodlak. I come from a land far, _far_ away. One so… I don’t know, alien? That you would never believe it’s real. Where I was born, it is called _Texas._ People from Texas commonly go by _Texans._ I had an accent as a kid that people wouldn’t screw off over. It still pops up from time to time.” The Dragonborn clears his throat.

Kodlak nods. “You have spoken a few times of it. This… mysterious _Texas._ ”

“I have family there. Or—I don’t know. Had? I don’t know if anything happened to them. I don’t know if they think I am missing or… I don’t know. That isn’t the point.” Rune’s hands drop to his side. He looks back at Kodlak to find the elder watching him with soft eyes. “I had a Grandfather a bit older than you. Growing up… we were close. He was the kind of man that bought rainbow shirts with ‘I support gay rights’ written in tacky sequins on the front. He was always there when I needed him, whenever I needed him. I couldn’t have asked for a better grandfather.”

“He sounds like a fine man. A proud ancestor to a noble Dragonborn.” Kodlak nods.

Rune’s gaze dims. “The thing, Kodlak, is—He was also agnostic. I know that word doesn’t make much sense to you given how thoroughly saturated in Divines and Daedra Nirn is, but in _Texas_ it means someone who… Uh. Stands in the middle of disbelief and belief? Skepticism and faith. My grandfather never openly expressed belief in a life after death. I took after him.”

The memories make the man’s eyes water. He wipes his eyes and sighs. Rune appreciates that Kodlak pretends to understand. He _knows_ the Harbinger cannot fully comprehend his words. He knows some terminology belongs to _Earth_ , and this is _Nirn_ , and the two are not interchangeable. But for a moment the Dragonborn feels like Kodlak _could_ understand, _tries_ to understand, and that means everything to a man ripped from the world he knows. 

“He and my grandmother were murdered in a botched home invasion eleven years before… Before I got here. Before I first got here, whenever that was.” The Dragonborn exhales sharply. He looks at Kodlak. “I don’t know how you can anticipate death as a beginning when all death’s ever been to me is a loss. I envy you, in a way. It sounds… so optimistic.”

“Usually—You are the one for optimism, Dragonborn.” The Harbinger hums thoughtfully. “But you have every right to express the opposite. It is natural to feel anger after loss. Such… from the context of those words—An unjust, sudden loss?”

The Dragonborn frowns. “Nicely put.”

The Harbinger laughs softly under his breath. The elder returns his hand to Rune’s shoulder. “It is never too late to mourn, Dragonborn. Regardless of the years. Regardless if you have grieved before.”

“Have you ever lost family like that?” Rune finds the question comes out suddenly.

Kodlak sucks in a great breath. The man slowly nods. “I have. Both in blood and in spirit. Many kin have passed to Sovngarde, or to their race’s equivalent among Aetherius. My grandfather and parents, for one. The three were murdered in Hammerfell when I was a young boy. My sister and nephew were killed by a cult.”

“Condolences.”

The Harbinger sighs. “I cannot change it. I miss them greatly, but I have found happiness in other things. Perhaps… not as much as I wanted. But a sliver remains. I must hold unto it, Dragonborn.”

 _Not as much as I wanted?_ Rune finds himself staring at the Harbinger as the latter draws away. It dawns on him what the words entail. The Dragonborn’s gaze dims. “What are your regrets, Harbinger?”

“Oh,” Kodlak shakes his head. His lips twist to a thin smile. “Many things. Things that are not of concern to you, Dragonborn.”

“I am a Companion. You are a Companion. That makes you my Shield-Brother on the battlefield,” the Dragonborn grunts. His hands tense into fists. “Your concerns are my concerns in Jorrvaskr and in battle.”

“Companions have no leader,” the words throw Rune off. Kodlak meets the man’s gaze and pauses. “I cannot order you to do this, Dragonborn. But I have thought on it for a time and realized, in Skjor’s passing, the one I thought could become Harbinger… is not Skjor—”

“I’m not becoming Harbinger.” Rune says softly. “You and I know full well my attention span isn’t cut out for advising others.”

“No, it is not.” The elder’s cheeky grin makes Rune scoff and gawk at the man. Kodlak smiles faintly and nods. “No, I don’t want you to become Harbinger. But the individual I have in mind… He needs someone with your skills and strength to watch out for him. I would like you to become part of the Circle, Rune. Become part of the Circle for when the mantle of Harbinger is passed to Vilkas.”

“—Vilkas? _Vilkas?_ ” Rune eyes Kodlak. His jaw hangs open.

“I will not live forever.” Kodlak puts simply. “When he is not acting on hothead tendencies—He has proven himself mindful of others in spite of their and his flaws. He is capable of self-reflection. He is capable of change. Growth. He will make a fine Harbinger, Rune. And you—A fine member of the Circle.”

“Hey—I didn’t say yes yet,” the Dragonborn frowns and rubs the back of his head. “I mean, _yes,_ obviously, but—I—What does a Circle member do? Do I need to be of the _blood_ for this? I’m not interested in becoming a _w-word.”_

 _“W-word.”_ Kodlak tosses the term around. He snorts. “No. In the past… perhaps being a _w-word_ would be requisite. The transformation was once celebrated by myself, and by members of the Circle. But recently, my views have changed. I do not think it would be wise having the Dragonborn be a _w-word._ ”

“Good. Good.” Rune exhales. “Okay. Glad that is settled. Sure, I’ll be a member of the Circle. It might take time for my mind to wrap around it, but… Yeah. Alright. Circle member,” the man pauses, only to suddenly start laughing and holding his sides. “Just wait until Farkas gets back—Oh, man, the look on his face—I got to tell Vilkas, too. I can’t wait to boss him around and make him clean my equipment. No more polishing great swords for the Dragonborn, nah-uh!”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Dragonborn.” The Harbinger advises.

Rune crosses his arms. “C’mon. After he _lost_ that fist fight, he made me clean, what? I think it was his, Farkas’s, _and_ Skjor’s armor and weapons! Nightly! For two weeks!”

“That was to teach you to be _humble_ in light of a victory... You and everyone else in this hall gave Vilkas plenty of, and I quote, ‘ _shit’_ for losing. I hope you do not forget what you have learned during your time at Jorrvaskr.” Kodlak shakes his head, but the man is amused. It is good change of pace given how dreary and downing the conversation has been at points.

“Forget… Forget. Oh. Oh.” Rune holds his head in his hands. He bites his lip and snaps back upright to eye Kodlak. “That reminds me. About—Gallows Rock. I found a room decked head-to-toe in notes, maps, everything you can think of when it comes to information on Daedra-related… uh. Nonsense,” He clears his throat. At Kodlak’s nod, the Dragonborn continues. “I skimmed most of it, but two things stood out to me. One is Namira. Her name was mentioned everywhere—And she seemed to pop up in a lot of the shit the Silver Hand had lying around.”

“…the Ancient Darkness?” Kodlak frowns and rubs his chin.

“Coincidentally enough,” Rune continues. “There was the name of a group circled on some pages. _The Forgotten Ones._ I don’t suppose you know anything about them?”

“…No. I do not.” Kodlak frowns.

“Well, fancy that, because I do.” Rune frowns. “You won’t believe me, but I know a _lot_ about the Oblivion Crisis. Almost like… as if I was there two-hundred-years-ago.”

_Playing a video game. Still counts._

“The Oblivion Crisis came up, too. I think the Silver Hand might have speculations whether Namira was involved in that. I call bull—Everyone with their head on right knows that the Oblivion Crisis had to do with Mehrunes Dagon,” speaking of the events makes Rune’s head hurt. He cannot explain it, but the memories of that time seem very vivid and rich, almost overwhelming in the madness of Daedra running loose on Nirn. He can’t recall everything, so he pushes it out of his head and continues. “—During the Oblivion Crisis, there was a group of monks devoted to Namira, to the Mistress of Repulsion and Decay. They were called the _Forgotten Ones._ ”

He sees Kodlak open his mouth to speak but for once the Dragonborn holds up a hand and hushes the Harbinger.

Rune frown. “I know that Vilkas and Farkas were imprisoned by a cult of necromancers as children. Farkas once told me the cultists often referred to them and other children as lambs, or soiled lambs. It’s a repulsive term, as is the abuse those two endured at these cultist’s hands. Necromancy in of itself could be argued as a violation of life, as it gives birth to undeath, something that repulses and rots when put side-by-side to a living specimen. I know this seems like a bit of a stretch—But I _know_ the Forgotten Ones didn’t die out at the end of the Oblivion Crisis. They could have easily shifted locations or expanded to Skyrim. What if they came here? What if they were the individuals responsible for imprisoning Vilkas and Farkas?”

“It’s a possibility.” Kodlak looks to the side. “Dragonborn, I have a suspicion on why you bring this up. But I would like to hear for myself first: what reason does the Silver Hand have to investigate an old cult? Beyond the fact the cult worships a Daedra.”

“Leilani.” Rune says the name slowly. He feels grim at Kodlak’s nod. The Dragonborn sucks in air and continues. “Farkas told me—He thinks Vinci is her. Leilani was one of those… _soiled lambs._ But, if we go back to Vinci, she is or was a Silver Hand. A Silver Hand who apparently pissed off the group and got imprisoned for ten years. Why bother keeping a prisoner like that alive? I mean, I understand the ethical reasons, but since when does the Silver Hand have _ethics_ and _morals_?”

“They do not. Not to my knowledge.” Kodlak remarks, tone a bit dryer than usual.

“Exactly!” The Dragonborn throws his hands into the air. He can’t help it; part of him feels spurred on by the moment to emphasize his own words. “They _shouldn’t_ have a reason to keep her alive! They shouldn’t give two shits about trading for her life when they had a _Dragonborn_ as leverage over you and all of Skyrim! But they did! They did, and I think—I think there’s a reason for that. And it’s not because that creepy blonde woman is Vinci’s older sister. I don’t know how that works.”

“Older…? No, that isn’t possible.” The Harbinger lowers his hands to his side. He frowns at Rune. “Dragonborn, Vinci was one of two kids. Herself and her brother were the only children.”

“The only…?”

“Ah, now who is lost in words?” Kodlak tilts his head to the side. His smile is amused. “I ask you not to repeat this to others, Rune. But I have reason to believe that woman is my niece. The twin to my sister’s son, Vinci Whitemane.”

Rune can’t stop himself from whistling sharply. “So—That means—She _is—_ ”

“Her name is Leilani Whitemane. My sister passed her name to her.” Kodlak confirms.

“Okay, so those two aren’t really related. Honestly, I’m just glad to know you don’t have any familial ties with the bitch who took me prisoner.” The Dragonborn does not apologize for his crude language. Part of him is stubbornly bitter at Tulle. He wants her head as much as he did when he first saw Aela’s and Farkas’s bodies at Gallows Rock. Rune ignores Kodlak’s glance of concern and inhales deeply. “Right, right. Okay. That help narrows the picture a little. We know for _sure_ that the Silver Hand takes an interest in your niece—who, for the sake of making sense in my head, I’m still calling Vinci. _Her.”_

“That is wise,” the Harbinger nods. “I believe she has… unresolved issues to work out on her own surrounding the name ‘Leilani.’”

Rune rubs the back of his head. “Got it, got it. You know, if there isn’t a sentimental reason why the Silver Hand wants her alive—I wonder if it has to do with the time she lit up redder than a zoo at Christmas.”

“Forgive me, Dragonborn, but I do not follow.”

“It’s—It’s another Texas thing, okay?” the Dragonborn grimaces. “Look, words are _hard_! I’m trying. I am. I just—One time—Before Gallows Rock—I got a potion and it let me see things. Things like… magicka things. And I saw Daedra magic on all of the Circle. The blood, right? It is a disease, but it is still Hircine’s doing. And then… I saw Vinci. And her entire body was _seeping_ red. I thought Arcadia poisoned me on accident. But no. It was only her and the Circle. The Circle due to lycanthropy, and Vinci… for what? How? Why? The only Daedric bullshit we know she was involved with was her being a prisoner of that cult way back in the day.”

“If, coincidentally, that cult was in fact the Forgotten Ones—What would you say, Dragonborn?” Kodlak tilts his head. He listens intently to every word, gazes precariously at every little movement Rune does.

Rune’s eyes darken. “I might say… I think Namira is involved with Vinci, that Namira became involved when Vinci got abducted by a cult of Namira a long time ago. And—I think the Silver Hand knows that. What they are trying to accomplish is beyond me. If they suspect her of Daedric involvement, they should have killed her a long time ago. What _use_ does she have to them alive?”

“I agree with your thoughts,” the Harbinger inhales deeply. He says, “More reason to take Shield-Siblings with you, Dragonborn. I can talk to Eorlund, but entire suits require a lot of metal. Weapons, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rune waves the words off. He grimaces. “I’ll take Athis and Torvar. Vilkas. Might even ask Ria or Njada to come along. More we can haul back—The faster we can haul it back—The better. But _Irkngthand_ is almost a week’s travel, there and back. Especially if it snows once we hit Pale territory.”

Rune’s eyes glance across the training grounds of Jorrvaskr. There are a few leaves blowing across the ground, spurred there by chilly autumn winds. _It’s getting to be that time of the year, huh?_

“Then you best set off soon. I enjoyed our talk, Dragonborn,” Kodlak nods firmly to his own words. He smiles at Rune then glances at Jorrvaskr. “I wish you luck with Vilkas. Man should be in his quarters.”

“Yeah… You can smell the mead from the whelps hall.” Rune sighs. “Take care of yourself, Kodlak. Try not to die while we’re gone.”

The Harbinger chuckles and waves him off, “I try not to die when you’re _here.”_


	22. you owe us a wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twenty years ago, a vow was made between three members of the silver hand. tulle has not forgotten it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy a chapter from tulle's perspective...  
> TW in flashback for:  
> -implied child abuse / murder / torture  
> -implied cannibalization  
> -vomiting / puking  
> tw later for emile and vinci:  
> -torture 
> 
> thank you all for reading!!  
> seeing comments is always rlly encouraging and motivating to write more  
> (heart)

_“It’s a mess.”_ The teenager says under her breath. She steps over a body, still warm but bleeding for the last time, and looks across the feast hall. _“We should have been faster to intervene.”_

 _“It could have gone badly. Sometimes… patience is a virtue. But not this time. Not tonight.”_ She can hear her father up ahead. The man kneels next to a woman with long black hair. Her neck is cut. Red seeps out and stains the older woman’s clothes.

The entire room smells of blood; it makes the teenager queasy, but as a Silver Hand she ignores it. She knows she must be brave for the scared, strong for the weak, and capable for those who take too long to act.

She stops next to her father. He’s covered in blood from the night’s events. So is she; she imagines the trip back to Gallows Rock will involve a detour to the east and a dip in hot springs. As long as she gets her own pool and doesn’t have to share with Krev, she is fine with it. The teenager irks her to no end; his suggestions and solutions to problems always seem more radical than what the Silver Hand stands for. She finds her gaze crosses with Krev’s. The other teenager’s blue eyes gleam with mischief when she scoffs at him. _“Don’t get any ideas! I’m not picking up after you if you disrespect the dead.”_

 _“They’re cultists. They disrespected themselves.”_ Krev snorts.

 _“You two—quit it. Krev, take a hint from my daughter.”_ Her father scolds the two.

Tulle sticks her nose in the air and strides past limp corpses to her father’s side. She crosses her arm. _“I don’t think any are alive, papa.”_

Her father’s pause makes the teenager hesitate. Tulle feels her stomach churn nervously when the man stands and gestures at the dead cultist near him. _“What do you see, Tulle? Be honest._ ”

 _“A dead bitch who sacrifices kids. Or… sacrificed kids. Not anymore. She is purged from the land! We cleanse the realm in the name of Stendarr!_ ” Tulle straightens upright and recites the words with immaculate enunciation. She practices often when no one else is around.

Her father gestures at the dead woman. _“This woman… was their butcher. The one responsible for sending a soul to Namira.”_

Tulle grimaces. _“Maybe we should make sure this one’s dead then._ _I can get a torch—”_

 _“No. No. Decay will take what decay wants.”_ Her father shakes his head. He sounds weary. _“Tulle, this will be hard for you. Krev, come here, you as well. I want you two to understand the horrors we face. This is why we fight. Stendarr protect us… look at the altar. This butcher offered her own kin. All for a Daedra…”_

It is a heinous sight. The altar of Namira in of itself repulses the teenager. She bites her lip but looks at Krev. She finds the teenager has the same apprehension on his face. Both stare at each other a moment before they move to the altar at the head of the table. Another body, not of a cultist, lays flat on the altar. It brings tears to Tulle’s eyes to see a child her age, a teenager, dead in a mess of blood and gore-covered tools. The corpse’s long black hair is a mess around the corpse’s bloodied face. Krev turns to the side and begins to heave and vomit. Though Tulle tastes bile in the back of her throat, she holds her stomach contents in and stares through her tears.

 _“They gouged out her eyes before we got here,”_ she whispers softly. She can see the spoon they used for it. She can see the distorted lids, closed and draped weakly over empty sockets. _“What a horrible way to die.”_

 _“If you ever doubt the Silver Hand—think to this time. Think to this moment. Think to the disgust, the outrage, the injustice and taking of innocent life. It will clear your mind. It will bring resolve.”_ Her father tells both teenagers.

Tulle finds she cannot look away. The entire sight is a horrific one, a testament to the sins a Daedra compels mortals, but her eyes are fixed on the poor corpse and her story. The dead girl will never know what it’s like to have a real family, what it’s like to see the sky again, what it’s like to hear the birds sing and waterfalls roar… Tulle bites her lip. She feels Krev’s eyes on her. The teenager leans over the altar and takes one of the corpse’s hands in her own. It is one of the few parts of the body not covered in a mess of blood, not taken apart and served on the dozens of plates lining the table.

 _“Stendarr guide you to Sovngarde, my friend.”_ The teenager whispers. She squeezes the corpse’s cold hand.

She screams when it squeezes her back.

The prisoner’s scream forces the Silver Hand leader out of her memories and into the present. Tulle’s sharp gaze narrows and she looks up from where she leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Emile. That’s unnecessary.”

The Breton snorts at her. He has a finger in his grasp. Tied to a chair in the room is the finger’s owner, a long line of blood coming from her hand as the latter sings curses and tears. Tulle refuses to meet Vinci’s gaze. She keeps her focus solely on Emile as the man states. “She stabbed us in the back, Tulle! Let the wolf outta the gate! This? This is _justice._ ”

“You took three toes and two fingers. And her hair.” Tulle’s comments are dry and irritated. “Leave enough of her intact for Krev to deal with.”

Emile’s glare makes her glare back. She does not fear the man, even as he snaps at her. “—Oh, what? Is he going to bone her too? Last I checked, you two were too busy fucking to give a shit ‘bout the Silver Hand’s heel! If it weren’t for me—She might’ve gotten out, too, then we’d have a rat and a wolf to worry ‘bout!”

“I’m sorry your untouched asshole can’t get any. That’s irrelevant. Don’t take out your bitterness on the prisoner.” Tulle’s eyes narrow. When Emile turns back to her sister, she pushes herself upright and strides forward in time to grab the man’s wrist before he can bring a silver-steel dagger on Vinci’s hand. Three other Silver Hand members look around nervously. She gives each a cold stare before she looks at Emile and shoves him away. _“I said enough.”_

“Just because the bitch’s your sister—Doesn’t mean she gets special treatment!” Emile growls.

The scream that erupts from Vinci’s mouth when he kicks her injured leg makes Tulle’s anger flare. She grabs Emile by the shirt collar and throws him to the side. The woman sees the three guards’s hands go to their weapons, but she already has a sword drawn. “You can take it up with Krev if you got a complaint. Or you can try a four-on-one. See how quickly I can beat your ass.”

“Fuck you,” Emile spits from the ground. He rises to his feet and seethes. “You’re in on it with her, ain’t you? Fucking bitch—To Oblivion with you both!”

“An accusation like that could be considered treasonous without any proof. Get some substance in your words and come back another day.” Tulle brushes off the man’s words. She sheathes her blade and returns to her spot against the wall, calm and composed on the outside only from years of practice.

 _Stendarr help you, Vinci. Why did you do it?_ The woman’s gaze darkens. _Why did you save the damn wolf? The one thing that would screw you over! The one thing! I could’ve talked you into a new life! A life where you don’t have to have this over your head._

Emile does not stay. Tulle waves him goodbye on the way out, though the trio of Silver Hand guards linger. Tulle raises a brow at the stares they give her. “Like I said. Take it up with Krev if you believe Emile got shit behind his words. You three are smart; I know you’ll make the right choice.”

She doesn’t dare leave Vinci alone with any of the guards. Her sister’s words from before are enough to bring nausea to Tulle’s stomach. Though she didn’t get there in time to stop most of Emile’s actions, keeping him from lobbing off more of her sisters fingers will have to do. She watches Vinci without a word as the night drawls on, fueled by adrenaline, outrage, and resolve not to fall asleep even when her lids grow heavy. _I haven’t forgotten about my vow. I won’t let them kill you, Vinci._

Morning does not come quick enough.

She sees heavy circles under Krev’s eyes when the man enters the dungeon. Tulle offers a wave as he approaches her. The leader of the Silver Hands shifts his sight from her to the prisoner in her cell. His gaze darkens at the pool of blood underneath the chair Vinci is tied to. Tulle clears her throat and gestures at her sister’s stained clothing. “—Emile wanted to make a point. I didn’t get here quick enough to stop him.”

“Two fingers.” Krev observes. He strides to Vinci’s cell. The woman does not look up. Krev’s head tilts to the side. “…And… Your lovely, lovely hair… A shame to see a Silver Hand like this. Vinci. I also see Emile indulged in taking three toes...”

“Don’t call me that.” The first words beyond begs of mercy, all night long, fall from Vinci’s lips. “Don’t call me _Silver Hand._ ”

Her sister is in pain. Tulle grits her teeth. Her first instinct is to call off the three guards posted at Vinci’s cell, to shoo everyone away and bandage her sister’s wounds, but she shoves the thought deep down. Vinci’s actions must be accounted for. As a leader of the Silver Hand, Tulle finds it partially her responsibility to resolve the problem.

“…Three months with those… _Companions_ … it does that much to your head?” Krev asks the question coldly. His entire demeanor shifts. Tulle frowns at him.

Vinci’s eyes water. She begins to weep in the chair, a mess of grime, sweat, tears, and blood from head-to-toe. “I want to go home!”

“Home isn’t with those _wolves_ ,” the man grabs hold of the cell door and rattles it. It makes the prisoner flinch and shrink away. “They are Daedra-stricken! It is the mercy of Stendarr we ferry their souls off the mortal plane! And you went and _freed_ one of them! You… _asinine…_ wench of a woman!”

“Krev—Krev!” Tulle snaps even when the other Silver Hand turns and leers at her. Her eyes narrow. She didn’t think Krev would lose his patience so quickly, but she knows the man has a limit and it appears Vinci’s actions teeter the fine line. “I understand Emile’s likely got into your head. Breathe. She isn’t a wolf. Those silver wounds would’ve killed her if she were.”

“She doesn’t have to be a _wolf_ to be _one of them!”_ Krev’s fists clench on the cell door. The man draws back and inhales deep gulps of air. He turns to Vinci. “You. Look at me.”

It brings a sliver of relief to Tulle when Vinci lifts her head. Her sister’s eyes are bloodshot. Krev curses softly and growls under his breath.

Tulle clears her throat. “We can’t kill her.”

“I want to.” Krev snaps. He eyes the three guards and points a finger to the dungeon door. “You three. Out. This is a private meeting now.”

The three guards jump upright and offer measly apologies and excuses before they hurry out of the cell and leave the dungeons. A torch attached to a support pillar offers enough light to cast distinct, brilliant shadows around the cellblock and floor. In the darkness, Krev is far more menacing than before. He is far taller and muscular than either woman. It is only Tulle’s knowledge of his fighting abilities, and her years of practice, that keep her composure intact. She knows Emile would have given in to desires to murder the backstabber much sooner than the Skinner. She also knows she has defeated him many times over the years; Krev is a smart enough man not to snap when she has a weapon.

Unarmed—Perhaps. It is a toss-up on luck and footing. At that moment, Tulle gives him a solid fifty-fifty. She anticipates him to try nothing, and her thoughts are proven true. Even in moments of outrage, of agitation, and of disbelief, Krev does not falter to his impulses. She commends him in part for it.

Krev takes Tulle by the arm and leads the woman to the dungeon’s common hall, out of earshot of the only prisoner in the Silver Hand’s possession.

“—We can’t let her out. Not again. Never. She’s a threat now. She took two lives... Would’ve taken more had she…” Krev shakes his head. He stands back and crosses his arms. His gaze flickers to Tulle. “She needs to be contained.”

“She didn’t use magic.” Tulle says curtly. “The two bodies? Strangled, stabbed. That isn’t magic. She’s fine.”

“You want to take that risk?” The Skinner’s voice drops to a whisper. His eyes darken. “You heard what the rat did to the Gildergreen?”

“I know.” Tulle runs a hand through her hair. She wants a comb, and she regrets giving Vinci her good comb when she needs it _now_. The woman looks back at the hall containing the cellblock. Her eyes dim and she says slowly. “She didn’t free him out of respect for a _wolf_. She freed him ‘cause he’s one of the lambs, Krev.”

Krev stills. The man’s eyes widen. He looks around the dungeon and draws in a sharp breath. Once again, his demeanor shifts and warps. He is as fluid in reactions as he is in bedsheets, though the latter is considerably more pleasurable compared to the bullshit Tulle dreads wading through at that moment. The leader of the Silver Hand gestures her to come closer. He leans to her ear. “You didn’t say that before. About… Farkas.”

“—Really? ‘Cause I told Emile’s ugly Breton ass to spill it to you when we dragged those three in here. A _month_ ago. Take it up with him,” Tulle shoves him back. She isn’t in the mood for his touches, not at that moment. Her gaze narrows. “It’s why she got an attachment to that Companion in Whiterun. _Vilkas._ He’s another lamb, Krev. They all come from that cult. That kind of tragedy and trauma… a person doesn’t forget. Not in one lifetime.”

“The teenager we found back then—The girl—She died in that cult. That thing in the cell isn’t her.” The Skinner hisses at her.

Tulle shuts her eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that, by Stendarr, Krev.”

“You know it’s true. I know it’s true. Reeves did, too. He should never had taken a light approach with that thing. That woman—”

“ _Is my sister,_ ” Tulle finds her tone becomes harsh and cold, blunt and blaring. She grabs Krev by the scruff of his shirt, unwavering even when the man begins to growl at her. “We can’t change what _my_ father decided. She lives. We keep her alive. That was our vow to him. In life and in death, Krev. Do you forsake a vow?”

“I didn’t say to kill her… Tulle,” Krev pries the woman’s hands off him with ease. “Cut her tendons… The ones in the heels. Lop off the tongue, gouge out the eyes. Remove all traces of the Prince, as much we can without killing her… We can immobilize her. Move her to a permanent cell—”

 _It would work._ Tulle’s gaze dims. The Nord looks back at the hall of cells and sighs heavily. _We could keep her safe from the world. We could keep the world safe from her. But at what cost?_

Even beyond the act of altering a body so drastically, even if she knows she could find ways to accommodate the changes, the impairment, Tulle finds it cruel. She cannot subject her sister to the physical actions containment entails. Even if the thing in the cell is not human—Vinci has become close enough to one for Tulle to care. _To care beyond what you put us through. To care beyond murdering our father, Vinci. I will die for this one day. But until then—I will not back down. I made the mistake of letting others keep you for ten years. I won’t repeat it, by Stendarr’s name._

“No,” Tulle says at last. She meets Krev’s gaze once more and puts her hands on his shoulders. For a moment she sees a speck of warmth linger in the man’s irises. Then—it is gone, replaced by a turbulent mix of feelings too fickle to make out. Tulle sighs. “No. I will find a way to fix this.”

“You can’t fix… Tulle. Tulle,” the man cups her face. “She murdered two of Emile’s Silver Hands. She freed a wolf in open view of _my_ men. They will question my leadership if I do not take action. _I_ will question my leadership if I do not take action! This isn’t ten years past… She has a debt now. She has treason to her name. She owes us a _wolf_ —"

“—Then she’ll bring us a wolf,” Tulle says curtly. She puts a hand on Krev’s chest and gingerly shoves him away. She gestures for him to stay back before returning to her sister’s cell. The defeat in Vinci’s form makes Tulle grimace. She clears her throat to get Vinci’s attention before stating loudly. “Sister. You committed a terrible act by releasing an individual plagued by lycanthropy upon the realm—”

“He’s not…” Vinci whispers softly. “He’s not terrible. Tulle.”

“I don’t care what he is, honestly.” The Silver Hand admits. She looks to the side. “My concern is... how we discipline _you_. If you haven’t noticed—Emile wants your blood spilled as much as he wants a wolf’s head on a pike.”

“Fuck Emile.” The prisoner says, voice quiet as a mouse.

 _“Vinci! Shut up_ for one second, by Stendarr—”

“Or what?” Her sister breathes. Vinci clenches her eyes shut. “You’ll take another finger? Just like he did?”

Tulle stills. Her face drains of color. She grits her teeth. “You owe us a wolf, Vinci. You are going to get us one.”

“I don’t want to,” Vinci lets her head hang. She shudders in the chair she remains bound to. “I can… I’ll be okay. Here. I don’t want to hurt people like that.”

“Who? Farkas? Vilkas? Both?” Tulle challenges the claim. She sees how the words provoke an immediate reaction: her sister freezes and goes rigid as a corpse. Vinci’s green eyes meet her own. Tulle does not waver in staring the prisoner down. “You got lucky freeing Farkas. If we were to invade Jorrvaskr right now—What do you think would happen?”

When no answer comes, Tulle continues. She has Vinci’s attention and she does not intend to waste it.

“We’re not interested in losing that many men for one wolf,” Tulle crosses her arms and stands tall and firm. She inhales deeply. “Which is why you’re going to Jorrvaskr for us.”

“What?” The words don’t process in her sister’s head.

Honestly, Tulle doubts they process in Krev’s head. She lets her lips curve upward a moment before resuming a wry frown. “—I know the hate brewing in your heart for Kodlak Whitemane. I know how he has provoked your past. Forced you to relive memories and face what you fear. He is a manipulative man, Vinci. A dangerous opponent. He is also a wolf, one of the _blood_ , blessed by the Lord of the Hunt, Prince Hircine. Do I speak truth?”

It is good that Vinci hesitates and thinks. The woman’s mind isn’t gone yet. Tulle fears one day her sister will not be able to be drawn back, thrown into a permanent state of dissociation, paranoia, and panic. Tulle gives the prisoner several seconds to contemplate before the woman begins to tap her foot impatiently. Vinci’s gaze meets hers. “…Yes.”

“I’m not asking you to kill Farkas or Vilkas. Even if you are a Silver Hand,” Tulle goes out on a limb with the latter sentence, throwing it out into the open to test the waters. She sees uncertainty flit across Vinci’s face. The Silver Hand frowns at her sister. “—No. No strange looks. This is an order from one of your leaders. You _are_ a Silver Hand. You said it yourself. I am giving you a command to go to Jorrvaskr and bring me the head of the Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane. He is the wolf you owe us, the wolf you owe to the entire Silver Hand. And—It is the least you can do for murdering those two women.”

The guilt seeps through Vinci’s face. Her mouth hangs open in a defense that never comes. The prisoner grits her teeth and hangs her head. Tulle can hear her cry. Words come through the tears, “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know—”

“You can. You will.” Tulle asserts. She pulls open the cell door and strides to the chair. It pains her to see Vinci flinch at the sounds, the sight, her proximity, but Tulle ignores all of it and kneels next to thick knots in the ropes binding Vinci to the chair. She peers at Vinci carefully. “Vinci, what do you know about yourself?”

The question takes Vinci aback.

Tulle takes it as a sign to continue, stating curtly. “You are Vinci of the Silver Hand, murderer and daughter of our deceased leader, Reeves. You picked your name because you wanted it to be strong. _You_ wanted to be strong.”

“Vinci is dead,” Vinci begins to shake.

Tulle frowns. She does not look away. “Don’t be silly. Vinci is right here in the chair.”

“Vinci is… Vinci is…” The woman falls into a loop of thought, evident by repeating the words over and over. Vinci looks at her lap. Her eyes water again. When she speaks, it is after Tulle finishes untying one arm and moves to the next. Vinci’s voice is a whisper. “Am I…Vinci?”

“It’s who you chose to be,” Tulle answers honestly. “You could have picked any name. You picked that one.”

“I wanted to be strong like him. Brave like him. Courageous like—” When Tulle finishes untying Vinci’s other arm, the latter holds her head in two bleeding hands and weeps. “I should have stayed quiet. I should have stayed quiet! I should have let them take me!”

“It’s okay now,” Tulle undoes the last of the ropes and straightens upright. She watches Vinci rise, only for the latter to crash against her and bawl. Tulle inhales slowly and wraps her arms around her sister. She frowns at the terribly uneven cuts Emile made to her sister’s hair. It will take a long time to grow out again. Tulle bites her lip. “You aren’t my sister in blood, Vinci. I don’t think anyone can be that now. But you… are my sister in spirit. I hope you remember that about yourself. We have made many mistakes leading to now. Let’s not make more. Okay?”

It brings a wave of relief to feel Vinci hiccup out an agreement.

Tulle draws back. “I will go with you to Jorrvaskr. The Companions have their Shield-Siblings, but you are my _actual_ sister. I think it’s time I have your back again.”

“I missed that,” the other woman says softly. She wipes her eyes, gradually lulling into a calm. “…I want… things to be okay. Tulle. I don’t want them hurt—”

“We are going to Jorrvaskr for the head of Kodlak Whitemane. You have my word. By Stendarr’s mercy, we will leave the rest alone.” Tulle swears it in full sincerity.

She lets Vinci hide behind her when the two walk back to the dungeon’s main hall, where Krev waits with crossed arms and a penchant for caution. The man is astute. Tulle knows no ounce of trickery will get by him, so she does not trick him. She gestures him forward and meets his gaze without flinching. She smiles politely at him.

“Vinci will bring us the head of Kodlak Whitemane: the Companion’s Harbinger. Will that suffice her debt, Krev?”

“…It will give me something to think about.” The man answers softly. "Don't mess this up, Tulle."

“Uh-huh,” Tulle answers and pulls Vinci behind her as she strides to the dungeon’s doors. She looks over her shoulders and calls. “You ought to talk to Emile while we’re gone. It isn’t good to have a subordinate hide information from you.”

Krev’s look of annoyance is the cue to get a move on. Tulle plans to depart for Whiterun immediately, before anything else can go wrong in one day.


	23. unsavory departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a dissociated woman wanders into whiterun. she is there with a purpose: to satisfy the debt she owes of a wolf's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter deals with a lot of mental health stuff  
> tw:  
> -paranoia and paranoid thoughts  
> -paranoid delusions of others (horses, random citizens, etc)  
> -depressive thoughts / self-hate  
> -implications / aftermath of torture  
> -DISSOCIATION !!!!! DEPERSONALIZATION !!!   
> -implications of past child abuse  
> -murder

The horse is named Slush. It is a horse she doesn’t know well, nor does she believe it likes her. The mare is a stubborn individual with gray skin and long legs. She usually stays on the mare’s back, wordlessly sitting upon the faded leather saddle while her sister says words she cannot follow. She doesn’t listen to her sister for most days they travel. She sits on Slush’s back, she flinches at the animal’s snorts, and she feels Slush’s judgement come from a mile away. It practically oozes out of the horse’s bridled mandibles, teasing and taunting unspoken syllables that leave the woman paranoid. _You can’t run from us. You belong to the Silver Hand._

Some nights, when Tulle sets up camp, the woman finds herself left alone and in charge of getting Slush food and brushing Slush’s mane. She doesn’t do a good job of it, not on purpose but for the sole fact the horse slowly begins to terrify her more and more. She wants to walk, but her older sister says no. She wants to run, but Tulle demands she stay at the nightmarish mare’s side and run a brush down the animal’s gray skin.

Slush has long legs. Long, gray, spindly legs, with great hooves at the end and silver-steel shoes attached. The mare makes a point to drag a foot along the ground if the animal wants attention. The mare whines whenever she takes too long tending to it. The animal stomps a foot if it is not given enough food. The woman wonders if the animal watches her when her back is turned. She doesn’t doubt it. She fears Slush, she fears unhooking the creature’s saddle from its back, and she fears not meeting the mare’s increasingly impossibly high standards. When dusk falls and she is made to sleep while her sister takes watch, _Vinci-Leilani-Somebody_ hides in a sleeping roll on the opposite side of the camp. She keeps a fire pit between the animal and herself.

“Where are we going?” The woman asks one day, when she is forced to climb on the accursed horse’s saddle behind her sister.

Tulle gives her a strange look over her shoulder. She is up to something, the woman is sure of it, something that is distinctly _not good_ but not quite enough of anything to make coherent sense. Tulle’s words cut into the woman’s thoughts, “Whiterun. Jorrvaskr, specifically. You are going to behead the Harbinger. I’ll help you.”

 _The Harbinger. The Companions. I can’t trust them. I can’t trust them. I shouldn’t trust them. But Farkas is one of them. Vilkas is one of them. But I can’t trust them. I can’t. I don’t. I won’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t._ The woman’s mind loops repeatedly, going back and forth between can’t and shouldn’t on a precipice of paranoia and suspicion. She says nothing as the horse breaks into a soft trot from the wildlands back to the main road.

Snow falls overhead when Whiterun comes into view. It is the cusp of winter. Leaves have long-since abandoned their trees and left them to face the chill of winter alone. The nameless, dissociated woman finds a semblance of comfort in the bare tree trunks. It reminds her of the Gildergreen—until she remembers _she_ killed the Gildergreen, then the woman’s shoulders slump and she is quiet until Tulle stops Slush a short way by the west watch tower and clambers off. The blond-haired Nord judges her, too, but she is used to judgement. She knows the world scrutinizes her. It must, because that is what her mind perceives as true and she is too lost in a state of dissociation to question it.

“You have to walk from here. They may not recognize you at first. You’re a mess, by Stendarr,” Tulle’s voice is pitiful. It sounds pitiful, so it must be pity. That’s how the woman’s mind works and she doesn’t question herself. She nods at Tulle while the latter drawls on, “…I’m sorry. I didn’t get there sooner. I should’ve… I should have. Something. By the Nine.”

 _Vinci-Sometimes-Leilani_ stares blankly. Tulle glances at the woman’s hands.

The woman’s stare is empty as she climbs off Slush’s back. She knows Slush must be happy about it, because the horse always seems to be smug and full of itself. It has a superiority complex. It is out to get her. She can’t trust it. She can’t trust the horse. She can’t trust the Silver Hand. She can’t trust the Companions.

 _I want to._ Her mind argues against itself. _I want to. I need to. I can’t. I want to—I want to. I want… I want… What do I want?_

“Remember what you have to do,” Tulle calls after her as Vinci starts to walk. “Vinci!”

“Okay,” the woman walks.

She walks.

She has seven toes, eight fingers, and short hair.

She doesn’t understand what goes on around her. She knows she is dressed. The guards don’t give her more than a glance when she walks into the walls of the old town. She wonders if her eyes are bloodshot from crying, or if the bags under her eyes are heavy enough to be mistaken for bruises. She does not think the Breton beat her that badly. She does not regret what she did. _Do I? Do I? Do I? Do I?_

She wonders if she regrets what she did.

 _What did I do again?_ The woman thinks. She sees a familiar face in the blacksmith hard at work at a shop called the Warmaiden. The blacksmith is an Imperial woman with dark hair, in a long dress with an apron tied around the front. Vaguely, part of the woman recalls the Imperial’s name as _Adrianne._

She walks past Adrianne and the Warmaiden. She can feel the Imperial’s judgmental stare bear holes in her back, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps walking. She hates the looks. She imagines what each of Whiterun’s citizens thinks of her: the strange, short-haired woman with eight fingers, seven toes, and clothes that are closer to… something. Something unpleasant. Repulsive, almost, _surely_. She feels repulsive in the clothes. The dress is too long, too warm, and too heavy on her. Her entire body feels weighed down and obsolete. She feels obsolete. She doesn’t realize she has come to a stop until she looks up and finds herself staring at the dead Gildergreen. Or—What used to be the dead Gildergreen.

In the middle of the Wind District, nestled in the center of the circular plaza and its walkway, is a tiny sprout of silver.

 _A sapling. A sapling._ Vinci’s eyes widen.

 _Touch it._ She thinks. _Take its life. Absorb its essence._

The woman steps forward but reels back before she can. She grabs her own outstretched hand and recoils as if shot by a crossbow bolt. _No. No. No. No! You’ll kill it. I don’t want to kill it. I want to go home._

 _Where is home?_ Vinci asks Vinci. _Do you have a home?_

 _I want to go home._ Is the answer.

 _You have no home,_ the woman tells herself. _Your home burned with your mother._

She feels her body lurch forward. The tiny silver sprout, the _sapling_ , is but another soiled lamb to decay into the darkness. She needs to take the lamb’s life. She must be its butcher.

The woman kneels and makes to grab it when the sound of a shout and heavy steps interrupts her. She does not respond at first. But the shout repeats. The voice is familiar. It temporarily drives away the lust of decay and forces her to pause. She straightens upright and lets her body sway side-to-side aimlessly with a single question on her mind. _Are they calling for me? Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong? Are they coming to take me away? Are they going to hurt me?_

She considers running, but she knows her steps are slow. She knows others would rat her out in a second. She has no one to trust— _but I want_ to—and no one to hide behind— _but I can’t_ —and no one to drag her out of the abyss her mind is lost in. She finds a response of _freeze_ and her body freezes accordingly. She struggles to pinpoint the location of sounds around her; her gaze trails the entire plaza until she makes out a heap of stairs leading to the rest of the Winds District and, eventually, the Clouds District of Whiterun. At the top of the steps is a man in much better clothes, with a look of utter aghast horror marked by wide eyes and a mouth hanging ajar.

His name is Farkas.

 _I want to trust you._ She wants to say. _I can’t trust you. I shouldn’t trust you. I can’t trust the Companions._

“—Leilani!” The man shouts for her from up the stairs. He sounds horrified at the sight of her.

 _I shouldn’t have come here. Why did I come here? Here isn’t home._ The woman thinks. _Sometimes-Leilani_ watches the Companion hastily make his down the steps. He is in a hurry to shout at her. Her urge to run rises but _flee_ is buried beneath _freeze_ and she does nothing as he runs to her and stops several feet away. Farkas looks better than Vinci remembers him from Fort Dunstad. He isn’t dead. He probably wishes she was dead. Everyone does. _She_ does.

“How did—What—” The man’s words are painful to listen. He rattles off question-after-question, interrogating her in a mess of fear and worry. He is hurt because of her. He experiences pain _because of her._ She does not have anything to say, because _I’m sorry_ is meaningless when she does not remember what she did. She remains quiet as the man badgers her with questions. When he realizes she has not said a word, he cuts himself off and raises the alarm. “Leilani—What did they do to you?”

“Leilani is dead,” the woman offers simply. “I’m Vinci.”

_I’m Vinci._

_But Vinci is dead._ Color drains from her face. How she could ever forget her dead brother is profoundly disappointing. She deserves the looks she gets, the judgement she faces. She forgot her brother was murdered a long time ago, but it also raises another question in her mind. _Who am I?_

She finds her gaze drops to her feet. She feels confused at herself, betrayed by herself, and terribly, terribly panicked by where her mind wants to go. She turns away and looks at the sapling planted in the middle of the plaza. It has a small silver aura, one that does not give her a headache. _I should… Be its butcher… I should…_

“—Leilani—” When a hand lands on her shoulder she shrieks and recoils backward.

Not every part of her is healed. The healing potions her older sister gave her at Fort Dunstad cannot purge her mind of its memories. She is not sure who she is, but she knows her body terrifies her.

“Companion! Can I be of assistance?” A Hold Guard greets Farkas from far away.

She sits on the ground. She can make out the Companion talking to a guard nearby. She struggles with finding balance and strength to push herself back to her feet.

“—Run to the Temple, tell them to send their best healer to Jorrvaskr.”

 _I have to go to Jorrvaskr. I have to find the Harbinger. I have to take his head._ The thoughts give the woman the push she needs to rise to her feet. She can’t run; the Companion is at her side again in a second. He barely tolerates her presence; she can hear his sharp intake of breath and the soft growl that follows.

The next few hours become a blur of colors, of faces, and of things. She is taken somewhere by the Companion. It smells like mead and spices. An old woman offers her a plate of food, but she rejects it; she _knows_ the bitch would poison her in a heartbeat if she knew what she had done. She knows the little bird is a wretched hag! The woman gradually finds herself swarmed by different individuals. Some of them use magic. She is too exhausted and mentally drained to fight them off. She lets them perform their spells of soft yellow light. She zones out their words and questions. She finds her mind constantly borders the line between a terrible sleep and drowsy waking state. Her thoughts continue to remind her over, and over, and over.

_You can’t trust the Companions._

_I want to._

When she finally does pass out, it is only due to the noxious liquid several people force her to drink through ill-intended smiles and soft threats. The concoction burns on the way down. It drags her into a restless slumber several minutes after.

The woman spends the next three days lost in a flashback. Leilani finds herself in a strange place surrounded by stranger people, by bizarre adults who don no masks but look at her with concern rather than malice. It is not enough to keep her fear away. She hides in the loud, scary town, she hides in the building of big halls and bizarre smells, and she flits away to a shadow whenever someone turns their back. She only lets Farkas-adult near. Even if he isn’t Farkas—Farkas is a _boy—_ he looks like her friend and she wants to trust him.

Sometimes the Farkas-man talks to her. He doesn’t have much to say. She is too scared to say much. Most conversations end as shortly as they begin. The silence is easier to handle. She likes to sit by the large silver thing the Farkas-adult calls a forge. It is loud when the stranger with white hair and a hammer clangs and bangs metal, but it still makes her feel a bit better. She likes to think the noise keeps the monsters in masks away.

“The… oh. Yeah.” The Farkas-man says on the third day when she finally explains to him why the silver forge is good. “That’s—Yeah. Good.”

“It is!” Leilani sits in a corner where the darkness is best. It is evening. The hammer-man has left; she and the Farkas-man are alone. She finds herself a little less fearful than before, even if she can suddenly see the silver in small and moving shapes all around her. She stares at the silver forge and tries not to think about the scary silver shapes.

The Farkas-man shifts where he sits. He does not sit directly alongside her. He doesn’t need to. He isn’t a _child_ and only kids get taken away by the monsters in masks. He has nothing to be scared of, unless there is fire. Leilani hates the thought of fire.

“You know,” the Farkas-man tries again to muster a conversation. Usually, it fades, like light in the darkness, but this time the words catch the girl’s interest and holds it long enough for a conversation to bloom. “I think… soon… Vilkas should be—”

“—You know Vilkas??” The girl whispers. She snaps her head to look around the forge before returning her sights to the Farkas-man. Her eyes widen. “Is he—Okay? Is he okay? Is he alive? Where is he?”

Farkas-man watches her. He has strange eyes that are very brown, but a light kind of brown that isn’t a _usual_ brown. The girl wonders how he knows Vilkas, or if he knows Farkas. The man kind of looks like he could be the twin’s dad, or an uncle. She once had an uncle. He would go on lots of adventures and tells her and Vinci stories when he visited. She misses Vinci. The thought takes away any hope she feels at the idea of Vilkas being alive. Hope doesn’t bring back her brother; it only makes her miss him more. She should have stayed quiet.

Before the Farkas-man can respond, Leilani’s eyes begin to water. She draws her knees to her chest and buries her head in her knees. She does not feel like herself. She feels sluggish and tall. She can only count eight fingers, and it isn’t because she doesn’t know how to count more than thirty. She has a headache. Tears fall down her cheeks as she begins to cry. “I want to go home!”

The Farkas-man pauses. “…Leilani. Where… is home?”

“By the river,” the girl hiccups. She lifts her head to stare at the strange man with big, teary eyes.

“There’s a lot. Of rivers.” Farkas-man says. He straightens upright. “…If you know the name—Maybe—I could take you home.”

Leilani sniffles. Her gaze dims. “I—I don’t know the name.”

The adult says a bad word, one of the ones her mother would only say if she ever got really, really angry with something Leilani or her brother did. The man looks away. “…You remember anything ‘bout it? How big? Wide? What’d it look like? Or… _Oblivion._ The… color?”

“White.” She blurts out.

“White.” The man repeats.

“White! Mama said…it’s a white river.” The girl’s voice falls quiet. “A white river.”

“—White River. _White River._ That’s it,” Farkas-man’s voice sounds shocked. The man scrambles to his feet. “Just—Stay _there_. Don’t move. I’ll be a minute.”

“Okay.” Leilani wipes her eyes.

She isn’t a child when Farkas returns. Her mind is pulled from its flashback, forced to face the terrors of reality once more, albeit in far less a dissociative state than she was. She finds the sky overhead is littered with stars peeking through swatches of clouds. Vinci’s gaze softens. _I want to go to the Throat of the World. I want to see the bits of Aetherius poking through. I want…_

When she looks at the stairs, she finds Farkas is not alone. The familiar, repulsive face of the Companion’s Harbinger stares at her with a gaze that is confusing. Kodlak Whitemane is a deceptive, manipulative man, but for a second the woman swears she finds a gleam of concern to his dark eyes. She refuses to believe it is anything but fake. She has lost too much trust in the world to rely on a man like him anymore. Part of her feels agitated by Farkas’s decision to bring him there. She can vaguely remember walking into Whiterun, but she remembers her disdain for Kodlak Whitemane _clearly_.

“—I’m glad you made it back,” Vinci says softly. She directs the words at Farkas and Farkas alone. So be it, she would rather rot on the spot than put up with the Harbinger another second. She rises to her feet and finds her gaze drops to her hands. Her eyes dim. She sees the potions Tulle gave her have forced her flesh to heal over bony nubs, but phantom pain sets in. She feels her nerves throb when she knows the corresponding fingers and toes are gone.

Emile took a lot from her.

“Leilani—”

 _“I’m Vinci,_ ” Vinci snaps at the Harbinger. Her hands clench into fists. “You of all people have no right to call me something I’m not.”

Kodlak Whitemane’s eyes hold many things. She ignores the look that flickers through them, an emotion she cannot identify, and instead the woman turns her sights to Farkas.

The Companion is alive. He has healed well, though she knows most of the scarring would occur across his chest and back if it did take place, and she cannot see either while the man wears civilian clothes. She almost questions him on why he is out of his armor when she remembers he was tortured for a month. Whatever the Silver Hand did to him, she imagines it to be much worse than the short experience Emile granted her. The Harbinger likely barred him from participating in hunts or jobs or _anything_ else the Companions do normally.

“Vinci. I understand you’ve been through a lot,” The Harbinger picks the words carefully. He eyes her with caution. “You've been here for... four days.”

 _“Four?”_ Vinci stiffens. Her mind blanks after walking through Whiterun, to a sapling in the Winds District. The woman looks at the Skyforge. The large silver mass offers her comfort when nothing else can. _I lost time again._

Now that she thinks about it—She has no idea how long she and Tulle were on the road for. She cannot remember the number of nights spent camping, the days spent on horseback, or anything else beyond the blurbs of colors, sights, and Tulle since her sister first stepped in at Fort Dunstad. _But she stepped in. She stopped him. She stopped him. She spoke to Krev. She let me live. Why did she do that? Why does she care?_

It is a thought that must wait another day.

“—Farkas here kept an eye on you.” The Harbinger’s voice cuts into her thoughts. Kodlak clears his throat. He turns to Farkas and states calmly. “Can you give us a moment of privacy? I will fill you in after.”

“A’ight,” the werewolf complies. He nods at both individuals and gives Vinci a long stare before turning and trudging down the steps of the Skyforge.

Kodlak waits until the man is heard passing through Jorrvaskr’s doors before he turns to Vinci. He exhales slowly and looks at her. It feels strange, like the Harbinger is examining her. She doesn’t know if its because he suspects her or if it is because the man is trying to find a new way to manipulate her thoughts and feelings. She resents him for making her believe she could develop feelings for Vilkas. She resents him for making her _hope_.

“White River,” is what the man says at first. When Vinci does not react, he frowns and goes on. “You don’t know the name?”

“It’s a river that stretches multiple provinces.” Vinci recalls seeing it marked on a map somewhere, from old Silver Hand days.

“…You told Farkas your home is by a river, Vinci. A river that is white. Both of us strongly believe that refers to the _White River_ spanning the provinces of Falkreath Hold, Whiterun Hold, and Eastmarch.” The Harbinger clears his throat again.

She looks to the side. If it weren’t for the pressure looming overhead to _kill the old fuck_ and take his head back to Tulle, she would tell him to burn in Oblivion. Part of her still wants to. She hates him almost as much as she hates Emile.

“I’m not going to say thank you.” The woman states with as much courtesy she can offer. She inhales slowly. “I don’t like you, Kodlak Whitemane.”

“Why is that?” The Harbinger tilts his head to one side.

“No—No,” Vinci grits her teeth. “No. I’m not giving you ammunition to twist around. I am not one of your Companions—”

Kodlak snorts. The man crosses his arms. “You came back like one.”

“I wanted to make sure he got back okay.” Vinci says softly. Her voice is tiny now, desperately trying to hide the fear that grows inside her at the prospect of the man seeing her motives.

 _I don’t want to be part of the Companions. I don’t want to be part of the Silver Hand. But every time I get close to freedom—I wind up with one of them. I don’t belong to myself._ Her eyes water at the thought. She wipes her eyes. Her shoulders slump.

“I know you detest me,” the Harbinger states. He lowers his arms to his sides. “But you do not detest Vilkas, do you? He will be back soon. He, the Dragonborn, and others have gone on a hunt for dwarven metal. They are expected back any day.”

Her pause is enough reason for Kodlak to smile faintly at her. It brings back the disgust in Vinci’s stomach, the one she feels toward him and toward herself. She cannot easily sort her feelings toward Vilkas in a box. The idea of it all being fake, of it all being make-believe, of it all being made up due to her circumstances as a prisoner of the Companions, it _hurts_ to think about. She needs to discuss it with him, but to do that means seeing the man and meeting face-to-face and her spirit can only take so much exhaustion before it crumbles and plummets into another pool of dissociation to cope.

“That doesn’t matter.” Vinci says. She averts her gaze. Anger gives way inside her to a antsy, fluttery flightiness.

“I think it does, to him.” Kodlak informs her. “You have no idea how much you matter to him.”

She feels heat creep into her cheeks. The woman turns away. She covers her cheeks with her hands. “—Don’t say that.”

“—Why not? It’s truth, Vinci,” the Harbinger clears his throat. “Rune spent days badgering the man to stop drinking himself to death after the lot of you came back from Silent Moons Camp. Without you. Vilkas blames himself for losing you. Again.”

 _I promise._ She can recall his words in a crystal-clear voice. _I won’t let anything happen to you._

Her eyes water. She misses him. She misses him even when she shouldn’t, because she is gridlocked into the Silver Hand’s possession and he is a werewolf of the Companions. He has broken his promises and she is about to break and destroy every single feeling he holds for her. _I owe them a wolf, Vilkas. I owe them a wolf. I have to bring them a wolf! I won’t let them have Farkas!_

“I brought you something,” the elderly Companion draws her attention back to him. Vinci turns in time to see Kodlak undo an extra belt fitted around his waist. The man strides to her and holds it out. Attached to the belt is a sheathe containing a strangely familiar weapon. “You walked into Whiterun with this. It isn’t our craftsmanship. No, I shouldn’t say that—It isn’t _Eorlund_ ’s work.”

It dawns on her what he talks about when the woman grabs the sword by its hilt and draws it. The silver-steel blade looks entrancing and _beautiful_ in the starlight. It is every bit the longsword she envisioned it could be, if not _better._ Her joy dies and becomes horror when she realizes Kodlak watches her happy expression with a dim, sullen one of his own.

“Then it’s true.” He speaks as color drains from her face. “They gave you it.”

“I…” Vinci cannot think. She feels her body instinctively _freeze_ in place. She is barely a fighter. She is _barely_ a fighter, and Kodlak knows. She opens her mouth to try and say something, to spew any kind of _bullshit_ that might save her ass, but she is hushed by Kodlak continuing.

“I had a dream about you. About this place. I do not have many dreams about those of us who are not of the blood,” the elderly Companion inhales deeply. He steps back and peers across Jorrvaskr. “In this dream… We were standing here. Me, as a Companion. You, as a Silver Hand. You had that blade outstretched, yet I felt no fear. You had it lifted, yet I felt no shock. It was as if the stars came together and Aetherius blessed that moment between us, for it felt so _real_ and _right_ and _natural_. And I woke up from it with but one thought in my head: this is how it is to be. This is how it will unfold.”

She stares.

Kodlak chuckles. “—And I accepted it. To think, I woke up from a dream where you kill me and I thought it was okay. Preposterous. Until Farkas came running for me, shouting about you saying something of a _White River…_ And then he led me out here. He took me up these steps. I realized, then, that it was no dream but a vision: a foretelling of what is to come. You intend to kill me, Silver Hand.”

Vinci’s eyes shut. She grits her teeth. “—I _have_ to. It… No, it is personal.”

“Personal to you or personal to the Silver Hand?” Kodlak inquires. He hums thoughtfully and strokes his beard. “You know, you do not belong to them. You don’t have to be their toy.”

“I don’t know what I am to anyone anymore.” Vinci confesses with honesty, because the man is right. She intends to kill him. It is her reason for returning to Whiterun. She owes the Silver Hand a wolf and she will not let them take Farkas’s head.

It agitates her to hear Kodlak huff. The Companion turns to her and crosses his arms. “ _Really?_ Because—As I said before—You matter to Vilkas. You are someone important to _him_. Remember that when you doubt yourself—"

“Stop mentioning him,” the Silver Hand sheathes her sword. She clips the belt around her waist. She needs to be more mobile because the scent of blood will be _pungent_ afterward and she knows Farkas’s werewolf senses are sharp. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Does it?” Kodlak presses.

Vinci’s patience begins to falter. She draws her blade again. Her muscles remember, though her hands missing a finger each make it harder to get a comfortable grip on her weapon.

“I know I will die here, Silver Hand. I know you detest me. I know you do this for a reason that is twisted as it is noble, even if that reason is beyond me. But,” Kodlak offers the words softly. “I needed to tell you… before this unsavory departure. You will not believe me.”

“I won’t.” The woman confirms.

“You are someone important to me, too,” the Harbinger breathes the words aloud. “Your name is Leilani Whitemane. You are the daughter of my late sister, who passed her name to you. She raised you and your brother in a small village a mile off a bank of the _White River_ in _Falkreath Hold.”_

The woman’s eyes darken. She does not believe him. More than that, she is _repulsed_ by the very idea that the man before her claims to be her uncle, that he claims she is Leilani when Leilani is _dead._ She finds everything about what the man implies to be abhorrent, to be _cruel_ , in a manner that is so nauseating and heart-wrenching she almost believes him for a second. But she owes the Silver Hand a wolf.

“You are a terrible man.” She _growls_. Her patience dies. She lifts the blade.

“I am,” the acknowledgement stops her. Kodlak eyes her with a soft, gentle look. It is terribly, terribly familiar, but she buries the thought beneath all the other thoughts she cannot stand to consider. The Harbinger strides to her and puts his hands on her shoulder. When she doesn’t impale him on the spot—she _should_ —or shove him away— _she should_ —he says in a voice far too sincere. “I’m sorry things turned out this way, Leilani. But know—I never stopped lookin’ for you or your brother. Not ‘til Skjor dragged me back to Jorrvaskr kicking and screaming. You always mattered to me. This... I don’t hold this against you. You musn’t hold this against yourse—”

He stills and pauses. His eyes drop to his abdomen. Vinci’s eyes follow, in an equal mix of relief and horror. She cannot explain why her eyes begin to water when she spots the crossbow bolt protruding from his heart nor explain why she starts to cry when his knees give and he crashes against her. She feels him go limp in her arms in seconds. She knows the bolt could only come from one person, and she does not know where her sister is. She doesn’t have time to think. She must get the head before the smell of blood hits Farkas’s nostrils. She shoves Kodlak’s dead body off her and she lays him flat on the ground.

Vinci raises her silver-steel sword in the air. The woman squeezes her eyes shut and brings it down on werewolf’s neck.


	24. i'm not vinci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinci has a little help escaping whiterun with the harbinger's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of this chapter, at some point or another, briefly mentions or alludes to any of the following:  
> -past child abuse  
> -past torture  
> -murder  
> -past child death  
> -pregnancy  
> -vomit/vomiting  
> -depersonalization
> 
> this is a chapter i definitely struggled with writing. I hope it is still enjoyable. there's a major timeskip coming up in a couple chapters and then begins the final stretch of this story. :0

She lifts the sword into the air and brings it down. The body shudders from the impact. The blade doesn’t cut through; the metal of the corpse’s breastplate reaches high enough up the neck to get in the way. It doesn’t dent. She brings the blade up, steadies her aim, and drops the sword on the corpse’s neck again. This time, the sword meets flesh and Kodlak Whitemane’s head shakes. She does not sever the head completely; the woman makes a third and final cut before the head finally comes loose.

Her eyes are full of tears. She does not know why. She detests the man even in death yet the sight of his body seamlessly decapitated, with a crossbow bolt protruding through his chest plate and heart, is nothing short of degrading. She should be happier a wolf she detested is gone and dead.

She _should_ be happy.

She hears Jorrvaskr’s front doors open. The woman barely has enough time to ready her sword before she hears the roar from the stairs to the Skyforge. She snaps upright in time to catch the gleam of a great sword as Farkas unsheathes is and brings it down on her. The woman struggles to lift her longsword against it. The Companion forces her to step backward and away from the head of Kodlak Whitemane, from the _thing_ she needs to bring back to the Silver Hand. She meets Farkas’s gaze and finds only disbelief and rage in the man’s normally soft gaze.

“What did you do?!” Farkas bellows the words, an unnecessary question when she knows he is aware of her guilt.

In the distance, Vinci hears people shouting. Running.

 _He asked someone to alert the guards. They aren’t letting me get away._ Part of her knew it would be like this. She isn’t a fighter anymore. She is _barely_ a Silver Hand. _I don’t want to be a Silver Hand anymore. I won’t be. I can’t. I can’t. I… I want to go home._

 _You don’t have a home,_ she hears the soft voice of an Ancient Darkness in her mind, eloquent and eerie in how welcoming it seems. _But I could protect you. All you have to do is call for me._

 _All I have to do is… call for you._ Vinci thinks.

Her sword is knocked away by a sharp strike when her attention is on her thoughts. The woman reels backward and grabs her hand, hissing in pain. She can’t beat Farkas in a fight. She can barely beat a drunk Silver Hand, even with the element of surprise. She knew she would suffer defeat. _I wasn’t going to escape. I never escaped. I was… I was… They took me to a feast. My mother took me to the butcher. My mother offered me to the Ancient Darkness. And then they… They… I died. I died. Leilani is dead._

 _Vinci is dead._ The woman lets her shoulders slump. She lifts her hands. _I’m not Vinci._

Farkas does not cut her down. The man holds his sword ready, hands gripping the blade tightly. His pale brown eyes are dark and yearning for blood, every bit as vicious and terrifying as a werewolf’s gaze ought to be. The woman wonders what must be going through the man’s mind. Maybe he battles temptation on a precipice of losing control, or maybe he pities her to the point of wanting her to stay alive.

 _There are fates worse than death. Living does not mean an existence without pain_.

“Pick it up,” Farkas barks the words at her. “Pick up your weapon. _Leilani!_ ”

She does not move. Her voice comes out a whisper. “I’m not Leilani.”

“Vinci—” The Companion seethes and kicks a silver-steel longsword at her. She does not pick it up.

“I’m _not Vinci!_ ” The woman finds her voice snapping. She is losing sense of herself, of who she is, of _what_ she is, yet she finds the call to give in to _her_ urges rising. It reaches across the expanse of her mind like a great, grandiose bridge built out of a darkness that encroaches over her piece-by-piece. She knows it should repulse her. It _does_ repulse her, yet part of her is drawn like a moth to the flame. Her mind begins to spin; her vision becomes dizzy in tandem with the lightheadedness.

She sways in place even as Farkas growls at her. The Nord is a mess of conflicting emotions, but grief emboldens him to step forward and grab her by the collar of her shirt. Farkas hefts her off the ground with ease. “You murdered Kodlak. It doesn’t matter _who_ you are anymore _, Silver Hand.”_

“Farkas!” Njada shouts as she runs up the stairs to the Skyforge. The woman makes a beeline for the silver-steel longsword and throws it into the forge. The great silver mass accepts the offering without pause.

Farkas’s gaze narrows. He looks over his shoulder and snaps. “Get a sheet to cover our Harbinger. Silver Hand’s done enough—We needn’t all’ve Skyrim seeing Kodlak like this.”

_I want all of you to rot._

“Leaving Silver Hand alive?” Njada questions.

More footsteps follow. When the Silver Hand looks up, she finds an unfamiliar face—a new Companion, or whelp, probably—at the top of the stairs with a torch in hand. The whelp’s brown skin drains of color and the Redguard turns and begins to heave up stomach contents over the edge of the Skyforge’s bluff.

“Filre! Get yourself inside, whelp,” Njada grits her teeth. She grabs hold of the Redguard’s arm and drags him down the stairs out of sight. Indistinct chatter comes from a distance; any other Companions present are active and alert, as are Hold Guards.

 _And Tulle._ The voice inside her head breathes. She shuts her eyes. The darkness of her mind wraps around her body and embraces her. It feels cold, colder than death, but the familiarity of it begs her to linger in the emotions. _Tulle… My sister… She will kill them… She will… She’ll save me._

_She’ll kill Farkas._

_I don’t want him to die,_ Vinci’s eyes snap open. The darkness retreats long enough for her to grab hold of Farkas’s hand; the woman wrenches it away. She doesn’t know where the strength comes from, but she throws herself at the man and tackles him to the ground. Farkas shouts in surprise.

In the distance, she hears the _twang_ of a crossbow’s string. She cries out in pain when the silver bolt impales in her collarbone. In the panic and struggle to get away from Farkas, she both pushes it in and accidentally tears the bolt out of her flesh. The blood gushes out with the remains of her adrenaline. She loses any strength she had. The werewolf easily pins her face-down against the ground. It forces her to lay flat in the growing puddle of her blood.

 _You promised! You promised not to hurt him! Not to hurt him!_ Vinci seethes at the thought. She is a Silver Hand, and a murderer, and many, many other things, but she will not step the line killing one of the few individuals she cares about.

She let him and Vilkas live at the Sleeping Giant Inn ten years ago.

She misses Vilkas.

She is a mess.

In the few minutes it takes Njada to run back to the Skyforge and cover the corpse of Kodlak Whitemane, Farkas has bound her wrists behind her back with a rope brought by Vignar. The old man curses when he first sees the sight laid across the Skyforge’s bluff. He hands off the rope to Farkas. Vignar offers a prayer under his breath before he exhales sharply, “Talos guide him to Sovngarde. May his killer be judged ‘ccordingly by the Nine…”

“Companion!” The first Hold Guard to arrive shouts.

The mess of them gives the Silver Hand a headache. They bring too many stares, too much silver, and far, _far_ too much fire in their torches. Farkas leaves her under Njada’s watch while he takes the captain of the guards aside and speaks softly to him. The Silver Hand can sit. Her flesh continues to bleed, but she knows nobody cares. Njada’s typical apathy is replaced by a viciousness that comes in her tense body posture and scathing stare.

“Y’know. You weren’t _bad_. Not as shit as others can be,” The Companion tells her quietly, in a voice sharp as steel. “And some of us here… they _liked_ you. Thought of ya as a _friend._ Vilkas did. Even I kinda…” Njada hands clench into fists.

The Silver Hand says nothing.

“…To think we let a Silver Hand in our midst. A _Silver Hand._ Among _Companions._ Talos, what’d we think would happen? What kind of _shit_ compelled us to do that?” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose. Njada inhales deeply. She does not calm, but the restraint shows when she mentions in a whisper. “I’m glad my child— _His_ child—won’t know the pain of your betrayal.”

“His child?” Vinci repeats. She stares up at Njada. Under the beautiful night sky, some of the Companion’s silver stands out. It gives Vinci a headache, but nowhere near the shock that renders her speechless at the realization of what the words entail. There is a smaller silver mass overlapping Njada’s abdomen.

“I feel worse for Ria.” Njada’s gaze darken.

It dawns on Vinci too late the Companion’s words are to harm her. Yet as she realizes, she keeps her mouth shut and she listens, both out of surprise and out of guilt.

“—She was less annoying back when she spent her time daydreamin’ ‘bout Vilkas. Then he fucked her over for _you_. Now I’m having his kid, he’s pining after a _backstabber,_ and Ria’s gone to her ol’ bitchy self. Things were better before you came along and fucked things up,” the woman kneels to Vinci’s eye-level, where the latter can see every ounce of bloodlust in her blue eyes, in her red warrior markings, and in the faded scars hidden along her jawline. Njada exhales sharply. “You’ll pay for Kodlak. You’ll pay for Ria. You’ll pay for wastin’ my time. By Talos, I swear it—”

“Njada!” Farkas calls from the side. The Companion straightens upright and hurries to him.

Vinci’s gaze dims. She doesn’t doubt the warrior’s words, or what fate holds for her. She tries not to think about the darkness in her mind or the way it soon begins nagging at her in hushed tones. _I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home._

“Take her to Dragonsreach,” the captain of Whiterun’s guards—a man Vinci never learned the name of—gives the command. Two Hold Guards in full suits of armor, complete with helms and visors masking the entirety of their faces, haul Vinci to her feet. She does not resist. She is forced to march past the corpse of Kodlak Whitemane, down the steps of the Skyforge, and through Whiterun under a beautiful night sky. Vinci finds it especially breathtaking through her watery vision; if it becomes the last sight she sees of the outside world, she wants it to be as vivid and ethereal as possible.

One day, she wants to go to the Throat of the World. She wants to see the bits of Aetherius peeking through the sky at the summit.

 _One day,_ Vinci thinks.

She is marched to Dragonsreach the second her wound clots enough to stop pouring blood. The woman cannot recall ever visiting the massive keep and castle. It is far more splendorous and over-the-top than anticipated. The walls appear well-fortified, the drawbridge immaculate, and the structure has a small moat of peaceful waters surrounding it. She is walked around the outer edge bordering the moat. The sanctity of the sky and stars and its distractions fades when a guard pulls open the door to Whiterun’s prison and forces her down the steps. She is not written down on a list of prisoners; she is marched across the prison’s corridors and cellblocks to solitary confinement. The cell door the guard hold opens feels surreal and horrifying when she steps beyond it. One guard reluctantly frees her hands. 

When the door closes, there is only a sliver of space between the bottom of the door and the floor to offer any light. She finds her body reacts with shock first. The cell is nicer than the Silver Hand, yet far from anything _good_. It is small, it is cramped, and, as time passes, Vinci finds her mind panics with her body at the walls closing in and the shapes in the darkness. Where her Silver Hand cell could at least offer _some_ façade of safety, there is none in the unfamiliar floor and wall of her cell. There is no bed. There is a rancid chamber pot in one corner. Not even a rat offers company. She sits in a corner and stares at the encroaching darkness, worse than any night and almost as horrific as some of her nightmares. She brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around herself.

“You could break out of here,” She doesn’t dare look up, though she knows the entity that stands in her cell with her. The Ancient Darkness talks with a voice identical to her own, sweet and soothing yet utterly _vile_ and provoking disgust. “I’ll protect you, Leilani.”

“Leilani’s dead.” The woman breathes the words aloud.

“Pity,” the Ancient Darkness _sighs_. The Daedric Prince’s manifestation touches a hand to her shoulder. It feels like a hand, at least, though the woman doesn’t truly know _what_ it is.

She keeps her eyes clenched tight. _I want to go home._

“You don’t have a home.” The Prince reminds her. “You don’t have a home in this world, Vinci.”

She cannot stop herself from barking at the creature capable of ripping her to shreds in a second, “—Vinci— _He’s dead!_ They’re all dead! _I’m dead!”_

“You’re right… _here.”_

“I’m not supposed to be.” The woman hisses. She holds her head in her hands and sobs. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be here. Why am I here? What’s the point to my life? I want to go _home!”_ Her words cease into a loop of endless babbles, unable to free herself from the train of thought that her mind reverts to. The Ancient Darkness does not speak again.

When she is too tired to speak more, and too exhausted to think thoughts, the woman tries to sleep. It does not work. She cannot sleep in the cramped space, where the walls narrow in on her and engulf her entirety. They are like the jaws of a gaping monster. She feels teeth where there is stone and saliva where there is cold sweat from her relentless nerves. The woman sometimes stares at the darkness and sees faint blobs of silver in the distance, moving in strange fashions or laying on what she assumes is the ground. Her sight brings her pain, but pain is a _feeling_ and she seeks out feelings to prove there is a point to her life.

She is not given food. She is given water after a time passes, and then she is left alone again. She is forced to make use of the chamber pot after a time. She waits. She listens. She passes out from exhaustion at one point, dreaming a nightmare of darkness, of flesh, and of the rot and decay that yearns to break free and devastate the lands. She is not given food. Her stomach begins to ache. The water is not enough. When she grows sick, she begs a guard to take her to a doctor, only to find there are no guards: no silver comes to solitary confinement. She wonders if her sentence is to wither away and die in the darkness, if the punishment is just enough for the crime, but the woman knows she is not a good judge. She does not question it.

Time comes and goes. Eventually, footsteps trail through a corridor far away. She lifts her head up and sees the faint mass of silver gleam faintly but grow closer and closer. The silver mass moves to a mass of silver sitting upright. The second silver flinches backward and makes to rise suddenly, but then the silver jerks upright. The second mass fades from view. The woman’s blood runs cold. _Killer. Killer. Killer._

As the first silver looms closer, she acknowledges it comes for her. Part of her questions if it is Vilkas, but she does not even know if the man is in Whiterun once more. She feels goosebumps pop up and down her skin. She watches in fear and awe when the silver comes to a stop in front of her cell door. Keys jingle. The first lock is opened, then the second unlocked. As the door is pulled free, torchlight casts a glow upon her savior. She ignores the pain in her eyes and stares in confusion at a Hold Guard in full uniform staring beyond a helm.

“Why didn’t you let me kill him?” Tulle breathes the words, muffled in part due to her helm. The Nord pulls her visor up and reveals her sharp blue eyes. She speaks softly, as if anyone could walk into the darkest, dankest part of Whiterun’s dungeons that very second.

Vinci takes her hand when she offers it. The woman is pulled to her feet. She curses aloud at the pain in her collarbone. The wound has begun bleeding again, and it feels inflamed. She didn’t realize infection was setting in due to the darkness.

“Answer me.” Her sister demands even as Tulle touches a pouch strapped to the belt around her waist. She retrieves a vial of red liquid and shoves it at her. “Vinci!”

“Vinci is dead.” The woman says in response. “Leilani is dead.”

“No, you _are not_ dead. Talos, listen to yourself—No, don’t, we need to get out of here. Drink that. Hurry up.” Tulle exhales sharply. She glares and taps a foot when Vinci does not drink the potion quick enough.

It helps to mend her flesh, but it does not heal everything. The area the cross bolt hit a time ago remains tender, and though the deepest part of the wound mends, the rest remains an open, gaping injury. The infection clears up, much to Vinci’s relief. She lowers her arms to her side and looks at Tulle. “You promised not to hurt him. You lied.”

“He would’ve killed you,” her sister retorts. Tulle grabs her hand and drags Vinci down the row of empty solitary cells, through a dark corridor, and to a cellblock. Some prisoners give the two strange looks, while others express only anger at the woman in a Hold Guard uniform. When Tulle directs her to a dead guard hunched over a table, Vinci understands.

She does not care about the looks of other prisoners when she strips herself of clothes and puts on the dead guard’s uniform. Vinci finds Tulle’s work commendable. The woman used a piece of thin rope to strangle the guard to death. There is no blood on the uniform itself; it is bigger than she would like but it conceals her completely. She turns to Tulle. The Silver Hand leader nods at her.

“—We’re going to walk out of Whiterun calmly. Collectively. Show no hesitation. It is early morning, Understand?” Tulle states. “I don’t know if I can get you out again. Our bird in Jorrvaskr has horses waiting for us.”

 _Tilma._ Vinci grits her teeth. _The old hag._

She cannot hold unto anger when escaping Whiterun remains priority. She slides the visor of her helmet over her face and exhales softly. Inside the helm, the air feels dank and reeks of the dead guard’s sweat. Vinci holds her head high and pretends the world makes sense for a moment as she tails Tulle out of the dungeon, spotting three other murdered guards on the way out. None of the guards say anything when she and her sister walk by them around the outer edge of Dragonsreach’s moat or down its steps. It is late in the morning and the sun beams overhead. Tulle leads her through the Winds district of Whiterun, past shops, and through back roads loading to the lower-level Plains district where residential homes encompass most of the buildings.

She does not see Adrianne at the Warmaiden. Vinci imagines the Imperial woman could see through her disguise a mile away, and she does not have it in her to lie when Adrianne has been so kind to her in the past. She walks out the gate of Whiterun and follows the main road to the stables just beyond the walls. It is there the woman stops and stares at a group of people, their horses, and a wagon full of yellow-orange metal scrap. She finds her eyes lock with the pale-brown gaze of a man she knows too well and too little, not enough but more than the world. Vilkas gives her a puzzled look. _He doesn’t know yet. They just got back. They just got back. Belong. Belong. Belong._

She wants to run up to him and hold him. More than anything else, more than life itself, she wants to cling to him and seek out every second of safety he offers. He looks tired but alive, weary but surviving, everything she knows and understands and wants to soothe and calm and comfort. She freezes when the werewolf approaches her.

“Guard, get a message to Jorrvaskr. Inform the Harbinger of the Dragonborn’s return.” The werewolf speaks with respect and an air of authority.

Vinci stares at him.

“Companion!” It is Tulle who interrupts. Her voice makes Rune flinch and snap his head upright, looking around in shock and anger only to give up and return to talking to a dirt-covered man who vaguely resembles Torvar. “It will be delivered right away.”

“…Aye. Thanks.” Vilkas lingers a moment more, eyes flickering with an emotion Vinci cannot recognize. The werewolf turns and returns to Rune’s side.

Tulle grabs Vinci by the arm and leads her back into the city. Vinci follows her behind the corner of a shop. Her sister states quietly. “We are in uniform. They will not know if we walk out there past them and take the horses. Tilma should have them ready.”

“What if she lied?” Vinci asks softly.

“Then steal a horse and go. Find a forest. Try to lose them. Their horses are probably tired from the journey, they can’t chase us forever.” Her sister sounds confident. Vinci wonders if the confidence keeps her in the position of a high-ranking Silver Hand. Whatever the case, Tulle’s voice encourages her. She nods in understanding.

All she can think about when she and Tulle pass by the group of Companions and their horses is how much she has missed Vilkas. Even now, when she knows her position as an enemy of the Companions has been marked, she still yearns to be at his side. She wants to sit with him at the Skyforge, tangled up in him as much as he in her, and watch the stars as night passes. She wants to see how beautiful his smile is. She wants to feel the weight of the world melt from her shoulders whenever he kisses her, or she kisses him. She wants to tell him how much _he_ matters to her, because she cares even more than she did ten years ago, and those feelings never ceased in the slightest.

She wants to tell him sorry. She wants to make sure he knows it isn’t his fault. He couldn’t have stopped her, or Tulle, or the Silver Hand from carrying out an execution. He couldn’t protect her from taking her fingers or her hair or her toes. He couldn’t have kept her safe. But he wanted to, and he tried to, and the fact he tried is enough to show his intentions were and are and remain good. She hopes he knows that. She hopes, by all Nine Divines, he _knows_ none of it is his fault. Vinci can’t help uttering the words under her breath when she passes him, _“I’m sorry.”_

The Silver Hand sees him freeze out of her peripheral. She does not hear him shout for her or make a scene. She follows Tulle further down the stables where, true to her word, several horses are saddled and ready to go. A young stable boy smiles brightly at the two. “Hello! The nice old woman said you’d come. She wanted me to make sure you take this to the boys at the western watchtower. Said they needed it.”

“…Ah, glad someone remembered our men stink. Haven’t bathed in three nights!” Tulle chortles. She takes a package that reeks of herbs and aromatic materials. The woman puts it in the saddlebag of her horse, Slush, before climbing on the saddle.

The mare Vinci assumes is hers is a horse with a rich brown pelt. She does not give it a name. She climbs on the animal’s saddle and grabs the reins. She looks at Tulle, Tulle nods at her, and both women prompt their horses to trot out of the stables and unto the road.

“Companion! Companion!” A Hold Guard shouts from Whiterun’s gate. The guard comes sprinting to the stables and pants and heaves while pointing at Whiterun. For a moment, the guard begins to babble incoherently before Ria calms him down. The guard wheezes. “Apology—Not—Sooner—Please—Jorrvaskr!”

“What’s this, now?” Rune quips sharply. The Dragonborn hands Kellogg’s reins off to Vilkas and walks to the exhausted guard. “Look, we just asked someone to take a message to Jorrvaskr—”

“The Harbinger has been murdered,” the Hold Guard sputters in a voice that is quiet and exasperated. “Captain—Captain Caius—Has kept it under wraps for now—But—”

“What?” Vilkas says. The man’s face drains of color. “No. That’s not…”

 _“Oblivion.”_ Rune begins to curse and breaks into a run, disappearing beyond Whiterun’s gates into the Plains district.

“Ria, Torvar, the horses! Athis, with me!” The Companions follow Vilkas’s orders to a tee. For a moment, the werewolf stares at Vinci and Tulle on their horses. It feels less like a simple glance and more so a suspicious stare, but Vinci holds her ground. She does not let panic overtake her. When Vilkas and Athis run after Rune, she exhales in relief.

“See?” Tulle tells her when the two begin a brisk trot away from the city and its Companions. The Silver Hand leader taps Slush’s saddlebag. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Afterward. After this,” Vinci is grateful for her helmet, because it conceals her face when she cries and chokes out the words. “I want to leave. I’m going to leave. I don’t want to be part of this anymore. Any of this.”

“You don’t have to be.” Her sister assures her and faces forward. “I promise everything will be fine.”


	25. (smut) your bare flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fort dunstad welcomes two silver hands home. tulle fully intends to enjoy the evening with krev.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost forgot this story actually has smut at parts ah...a....h.a.... there's actually 30-40% of this story left to write and two other smut scenes that are post timeskip (( we are almost to the timeskip yay!!!)  
> okay so TW's for the smut in case certain sexual acts are triggers for ptsd:  
> -hey there's anal  
> -and it's like very enthusiastic slightly rough sex  
> -and a tiny bit of bondage is involved  
> -and some slapping. not of the face.  
> smut more or less begins at:  
> "The Nord rubs his chin in thought."  
> TO SKIP THE SMUT C+F:  
> "Screams erupt outside the room,"
> 
> other TW's for this chapter:  
> -flashbacks cover implied cannibalization / past child death / abuse  
> -there's a lot of name-calling  
> -murder  
> -death

“Do you really want to be free of this? Of the Silver Hand?” Tulle asks on evening when the two are en route to Fort Dunstad. Winter is here in Skyrim, and the Pale feels particularly barren and empty under a sheet of white snow. 

She watches her sister’s gaze dim.The duo traded Whiterun Guard uniforms for sets of thick fur armor awhile back, yet her sister looks just as out of place in those as before. Vinci has deep bags under her green eyes. “I’m tired. I want to go home, Tulle. I want to go home.”

“You don’t see home with the Silver Hand.” Tulle grimaces.

She wishes she could tell Vinci everything. How she, Krev, and Reeves found her that fateful day long ago in a cave of dead cultists and an altar of Namira. She wishes she could explain things. She knows better: her responsibility is to keep her sister safe and _alive,_ out of the hands of followers of Namira at all cost; Tulle does not know how Vinci would react if she knew the truth. The possibilities mortify her. On more than one occasion on the long trek back, the Nord woman stirs from terrible nightmares of Namira being summoned to the mortal world, fueled by the creature she views as a sibling.

 _No. No. I won’t let that happen. I made a vow. I swore a promise. I intend to keep it. I…_ The Silver Hand bites her lip.

Fort Dunstad takes an extra week to travel to, devouring two weeks total. The snow falls in droves by the time the walls of the fort come into sight. Tulle perks up in Slush’s saddle. Her eyes gleam faintly with a smugness befitting the entire faction. She cannot wait for the look on Emile’s face when she tells him the job was successful: The Harbinger is dead, his head is theirs, another wolf leaves the mortal plane of existence!

“Open the gates!” The blond-haired Nord calls up to the guards—a man and woman she remembers by the names of Alfred and Rachelle respectively—in a snappy tone. She grins ear-to-ear when a Silver Hand unlocks the doors of Fort Dunstad. The opening mechanism causes the great gate to groan and heave as it opens. 

She dismounts in the middle of the fort courtyard. The woman grips Slush’s reins tightly and gestures for Vinci to do the same. Her sister is reluctant at first, but ultimately complies. Tulle huffs. “Look, you can’t talk to Krev from a horse. That’s... preposterous. C'mon.”

“Right,” Vinci says when she climbs off her horse. "Sorry." 

The two women pause when the Fort Dunstad's doors burst open. Tulle meets Krev’s sapphire-blue gaze with one of her own, only where his is weary, hers is derived of ego and calm. When the leader of the Silver Hand marches to her, she laughs and holds up a free hand. Tulle moves to Slush’s saddlebag and fiddles with the clasp of its primary pocket. The woman retrieves the _package_ of aromatic-covered papers. “You thought she couldn’t do it. Oblivion, Krev, what do you take my sister for?”

“Perhaps an apology’s in order,” Krev the Skinner narrows his eyes. He strides to Tulle and takes the package. The man reaches through endless garlic and cinnamon cloves to feel and pull out the head of a dead Harbinger. Krev’s eyes widen and he begins to smile. The man shouts for other Silver Hands to draw near as he holds Kodlak’s head by the hair to each of them. “Friends! A celebration is called for! The Companions… Their Harbinger is no more! _No more!_ ”

Cheers erupt across the faction’s members. Guards laugh and crack jokes at the expense of a dead man. Some of the members are simply relieved that one less wolf walks in mortal skin. Tulle notices Vinci looks at the ground, gaze dim and lips pulled into a taut frown. 

“I’ll be,” the voice of Emile comes crawling from the side. The Breton pushes other Silver Hands out of his way and stops several yards from Tulle. “Kodlak Whitemane’s _dead._ Can’t say I expected either of you to pull it off.”

“It was all her,” Tulle returns to Vinci’s side and wraps an arm around her sister's shoulders. “She used a wolf’s escape to make them _trust her._ Then she cut him down!”

“That all?” Krev asks. The man pauses.

Tulle laughs at him. “Aye! But if you want me to repeat the tale in a grander scheme, I can do that. See, I made her walk right into Whiterun. Gave her a good licking of fists before, too. That suckered those fools up _real_ good. Then…” She begins to recount the story from her perspective, sparing no expense in decorating details and exaggerating Vinci’s actions. She has zero intention to sell her sister out to the Silver Hands; not when she went through so much trouble keeping her intact in the first place.

 _Why didn’t you kill him, Vinci? Why didn’t you let me kill him?_ The thoughts lingers even as Tulle tells the tale, making eye contact with not only Emile but also Krev sporadically throughout it. The thoughts burn in her mind. _Why do you care about these people? What’s the point of caring about a wolf? They aren’t mortal! They aren’t… Are they? Was I wrong about all this? No. No! I’m not wrong. The wolf deserved to die! He’s dead. Vinci… couldn’t kill him._

She was the one who murdered Kodlak Whitemane, but the Companions think otherwise. She left no trace in Whiterun. Not even her crossbow: the Silver Hand destroyed it when it was apparent she would have to play the scene out more delicately than she wanted.

 _But he had to die. He had to die so Vinci could live._ Tulle knows.

That evening, Fort Dunstad’s insides are lit up with excitement and activity. Food is plentiful, mead more so, and even Emile appears to relax in the company of Silver Hands, though Tulle does not trust him worth shit. The woman spends her early evening chatting with Vinci and congratulating her on such a gruesome kill. It is clear her sister is uncomfortable with so much attention on her, but for the sake of keeping suspicion low, Tulle shoves wine at her for her nerves. After a couple glasses, Vinci is more than drunk. The woman is practically passed out, barely coherent and mumbling faintly with her face squished into a table.

Tulle laughs and slaps her sister on the back. “Atta gal! No light head’s my kin! You can take your shots well, Vinci. I’m proud.”

“Ugh,” Is the woman’s response.

“Don’t go anywhere, need to find me more veal,” When the blonde Nord scans the room, she finds among the legion of merry Silver Hands the calm face of Krev. The man’s blue eyes entice her. She has not had but a drink; she cannot make herself down more than usual. Her mind remains clear and coherent. She pushes her chair back from the table, stands, and gives Vinci’s mumbling form a last look before shaking her head. _Maybe a light head yet._

She finds Krev outside his quarters, down the corridor connecting the series of private rooms to the Fort’s main hall. She tilts her head to the side and gives him a smile as she approaches. The woman finds it amusing how utterly obvious Krev is. Either that—Or she is too good at reading people she knows. She can see his stiff posture. She spots the apprehension in his hands, where his fingers drum the wall as he meets her gaze. It is a side of the man she never thought she would get to know. A lot has changed since the two were teenagers.

“Well…” Krev clears his throat. His lips tug into a smile of his own. “You two… did it.”

 _“She_ did it. Credit where credit is due,” the Silver Hand leader makes it clear. She crosses her arms and settles against the corridor wall alongside him. “What’d you need?”

The man’s chest rumbles with amusement. He grins and shakes his head. “…Nothing, actually. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m here.” Tulle undoes her hair and shakes it out until it is a mess around her shoulders and down her back. “You’re awfully bad at this, Krev. Offense intended. I dunno how in Oblivion you’d think this would work out.”

“Hm?”

“You can’t ask a lady into a hallway and expect the world. What you got to soften me up with? Anything? Looks can’t always cut it,” she clears her throat and smiles politely. “I need a little… motivation. Something to look forward to. Yeah?”

“Ah. _Motivation_ …” Krev trails off. The Nord rubs his chin in thought.

Tulle chuckles. “Getting worse by the second.”

“I’d be lying if… If I said I haven’t missed you, Tulle,” the man crosses to her and wraps arms around her waist. He lowers his head to hers—not much of a feat, given the two’s height is only an inch or two off—and looks her in the eyes. “Missed… _all_ of you. Waited for… _all_ of you. Wanted… _all_ of you,” he moves to her ear and whispers into it. “I can take it tonight… All your dirty needs… I have everything inside.” His hands creep to her armor and she gleefully pushes her body against his. Hearing the intake of breath and the ensuing growl makes her flush with want.

“I’m in charge,” Tulle snaps at him, in a voice sweet as silk and colder than a river in winter. She grabs him by the wrist and pulls him his bedchamber door. The woman shoves it open and pushes him inside. She closes the door shut behind the two and locks it. “Strip for me.”

He does. It is as thrilling this time as it was the last, as it was the time before last, or any of the endless dozens of times the two have done this dance in the past seven years. She leans against the locked door and grins wickedly as the much larger Nord begins to doff his armor and take off his clothes underneath. Every inch of scarred flesh leaves her hungrier for more. Every hint of muscle, every bit of tone, every single _aspect_ of all that Krev is belongs to _her_ at that second. When he is fully nude, she hums to herself and pushes herself upright.

“Turn to face the bed. Bend over.” She orders.

The man huffs. “Starting rough.”

“You said you could take it. If that was a lie, I can leave right now.” Tulle retorts.

Krev laughs. “I like it rough... You forget that?”

“Never,” she walks up to him and grabs one ass cheek firmly. It pleases her to no end to hear his hiss. Her hand cups his rear and she slides her hand around his hip, feeling out every bit of skin she intends to mark as _hers_ that evening. By the Nine, he is exactly what she wants. He is every bit of what she needs to push out of her system, a reservoir for the dominative qualities she wants to unleash. Tulle’s red lips curl into a smile. She reaches for Krev’s penis and caresses it with her hand from behind.

The Leader of the Silver Hand is utterly _weak_ for her. He curses softly at her touches; the man bucks his hips into her hand when she begins to squeeze and rub the tip of his shaft. Tulle snorts at the man’s growl when she suddenly releases him and draws her hand back. She pats his rump to silence any complaints. She gently spreads the man's ass and admires what he offers her.

“Smart to bathe before this.” Tulle comments. She presses a finger against the man’s sphincter. His shudder is her muse. “Tell me where the lube is.”

“Chest next to my shelf. The jar is… It’s a black jar.” Krev states. He wriggles his bum at her but yowls when she slaps it. It takes a minute for her to find the lube and return to the bed and her prize bent over it.

“And the harness?” She asks.

“Underneath.” Krev’s foot gestures beneath the bed. "It works, for the record."

“You'll have to prove it to me," She says coyly. Tulle presses a kiss to the man’s left cheek and nips the skin after. She enjoys how jumpy he gets when he is aroused. His bedchamber habits are a complete contrast to fierce, stone-cold man he is to the two’s faction. Tulle finds the harness where he claims it is. She pulls it out with a sigh of contentment and straightens up. The woman steps into it and pulls it up her legs and over her armor.

The woman does not go for the strap-on first, even with it in place in the harness. She drops her gloves to the floor and gingerly squirts lube unto a finger and gently presses it into the man’s ass. Krev’s breathing hitches. He doubles over and begins to pant as Tulle pushes the finger deeper. She draws her hand back and grins at his moan. The woman lubes a second finger. She works it in with the first and feels herself grow wet and Krev’s hips attempting to buck backward into her. His hiss is impatient. She likes to teach him patience. She slaps his ass and huffs loudly at the growl he gives in response.

She doesn’t go past two fingers. She invokes a slow pace with them, making every thrust of her fingers go to the knuckle before suddenly pulling out. She hums soothingly to the man beneath her as she fingers him. She can feel his body clench around her as she repeats the motion. She knows better than to increase the pace and make him come too early. It has been a while since she got to make the rules; she intends to make the most of it.

Krev’s hips become more desperate as time goes on. His moans become grunts and his grunts turn into hisses and clenched teeth. The man grips the bed sheets and rocks against her hand to no avail. When he exhales in relief at her fingers finding his prostate, she suddenly pulls her fingers out. He begins to growl; she slaps one ass cheek. “Fine, fine. But you best be loud—”

“You’re the loud one,” he retorts dryly.

Tulle touches the end of the strap-on penis to the man’s sphincter. He moans and arches his back against it. She raises both brows. “Uh-huh.”

The woman grabs the bottle of lube and coats the strap-on with it. She has taken Krev anally enough times to know how much is enough. She wants the friction to linger, but she also wants it to be comfortable for him. When she is satisfied with the amount, she jabs the tip against his cheek. He pushes his hips at her. “…Get on with it. Tulle.”

“Say please.” She moves the tip to his asshole and presses it against him.

His hands clench. “Please! Tulle! _Please! Please!_ ”

“Do you want it?” Tulle inquires, voice smooth and full of enjoyment for every bit of the moment.

Hearing Krev’s whine makes her breath hitch. “I want it. I want it. I want you. Please… Please.”

“Well, you said _please.”_ She penetrates him in one motion, throwing her hips into the back of his and her body weight over his body. Tulle feels the man shake and spasm from the entry. It is expected, but she knows expectations don’t measure up to reality. She immediately begins to roll her hips. She loves the gasp that falls from the tough, sturdy Nord, the man who could cut down three werewolves in a single strike. She thrusts into him and grabs hold of his shoulders and back to help provide balance and momentum. Her fur armor slaps the man again, again, again as she gyrates into him. His hips writhe and squirm to meet her strokes but she reaches around his body and grabs the man’s shaft. In a second Krev is more than a panting mess; he is a pleading, trembling man on the verge of ecstasy. He throws his head back and cries out for more, only for Tulle to bite his back and make him shake.

The pre-cum dribbles off the man’s tip. It gets on her hands but she doesn’t care. She reaches her second hand around to his shaft and begins to jerk him off while her hips lazily slow in their rolls. Krev’s pants become loud and pained. “Tulle—Tulle—More—”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you? I bet you would," The Silver Hand leader rubs her finger over the head of Krev’s member until the man cannot hold off orgasm. She begins to rock her hips into his and press the strap-on deeply as he howls in bliss and cums on the bed and in her hands. She thrusts several more times until she feels him harden a second time. Then she pulls out, slaps one cheek, and barks. “Sit up. Lick my hands clean.”

“Needy woman,” Krev comments. He pushes himself upright, slightly disoriented from the orgasm in question. Yet when the cum-covered fingers are offered, he opens his mouth and sucks each digit dry.

Tulle pulls her hands back in satisfaction. She loosens the harness and lets it fall off her form. She flicks a hand at the bed. “Lay on your back.”

“Mm.” The man is all-too-eager for _everything_ she says. He flops unto the bed and watches her undress with hungry eyes. His hands begin to clench at one point but Tulle makes it clear _she_ is the one running the show that evening.

When naked, she begins to search his shelves, armoires, and chests. The woman stops only when she finds lengths of rope long enough for what she wants. Krev holds his hands to the headboard, stretched out like the letter ‘T’. Tulle smiles at him and binds his hands on each side. She runs a finger down his bare, hairy chest and smiles at his exhale. “You want me. Look at you. Erect as a whistle.”

“You’re hard not to want,” Krev confesses. His eyes meet hers. “All I can think of most days… Is us. Like this.”

“I hope I live up to your fantasies.” Tulle laughs at the thought. She climbs on top of the man and begins to grind against him. He guffaws and tries in vain to thrust into her, but he isn’t inside of her and she intends to make him beg for the honor. The woman’s hands go to Krev’s nipples and she slowly rubs them between each thumb-and-forefinger until Krev is red in the face. He begins to writhe beneath her and get her slickness up and down his abdomen and upper thighs.

“Tulle…” Krev gives up and stares.

The woman hums and laughs when he curses at her lightly squeezing his nipples. She drops her head to them and sucks one while her hand plays with the other. She stops and grins when she hears a fresh moan come from the man’s lips. Sweat covers his forehead and his breathing in shallow.

“Beg for me.” The woman snaps.

Krev grits his teeth. “Please—”

“Louder! Scream it! Shout it! I want them to know who has the right to touch you like this!” Tulle growls. She begins to grind against him again, occasionally rubbing the tip of his shaft with her vulva.

It makes him heave and gasp. He begins to sputter the words, as desperate for the act inside as he is outside. “Please! Please! Tulle—I want you—I need this! I need _you—_ ” Tulle cuts off his words by crashing her lips against his. She steals them for a long, tantalizing minute. When she draws back, she sees how deeply flushed the Nord is. He groans as she scoots backward to his hips and squats over him. She finds his shaft with one hand and holds herself open with the other.

“Look me in the eye,” Tulle states curtly. She meets his blue gaze with one of her own. Her smile becomes a grin as she lowers herself over Krev’s penis and takes him deep inside. Krev shouts praises to all Nine when she engulfs him.

The woman laughs and begins to ride him. She bounces on and off of him until he can’t speak, merely wheeze and pant from arousal she invokes. She feels his member pulse inside of her. She can feel her slick inside grip him even through the natural lubrication. She uses a free hand to rub her clit and propel the sensations to greater heights. The woman slams her hips unto him until she finally gives in to her needs, to his wants, to the two’s shared desires. He bucks into her; she drops unto him and shakes as her orgasm knocks air from her lungs and words from her mouth. She feels him go flaccid; she did not intend to let him orgasm but she can feel him dump a load inside of her. It is one of the few times the two have succeeded in sharing a climax; she finds it satisfactory enough. She pushes herself up and squeezes him one last time with her muscles before slipping off him and straddling his waist.

She cocks her head to one side. “Two in one night for you.”

“Give me an hour… I can go again.” Krev’s smirk makes her stomach flip-flop.

Tulle shakes her head and moves to undo the wrists holding his hands back. No sooner than he is freed does his hands go to her body and he massages her chest. He sits upright and turns her to lay back in his lap. She peers at him and he grins before lowering his hand to her vulva and pressing a finger inside. It brings back all the heat into her stomach; she grabs hold of him and bites his arm. Krev curses and draws his hand back immediately. He grabs her face and pulls her into a rough, sloppy kiss. He shifts positions and presses her into the mattress.

“Fuck an hour,” the man whispers before he takes her lips again.

Screams erupt outside the room, faint enough to come from either the outside or the hall. Krev stiffens and Tulle pushes him off her without second thought. Both give each other a knowing, annoyed glance before they make to dress. Tulle takes time to throw on her gloves, her belt, and her long sword before both Silver Hand leaders, still covered in the sweat and grime of their intimate session, rush out the bedchamber and bolt for the hall. Tulle arrives first at the scene. Her face drains of color; she hears Krev’s soft gasp.

Dishes have been shoved off the over-turned table, cracked and smashed on the floor. Silver Hand members surround Vinci, though each keep their distance from the sobbing, drunk woman. Vinci is a crumpled mess next to a husk that was once a man. The smell of rotten flesh hits the air and Tulle covers her mouth in effort not to begin heaving. The repulsive aroma pains her. It makes her ill the longer she is in its presence, but she knows she cannot leave. She barely has time to find a cloth and wipe her fingers off before she is at her sister’s side.

She makes to lay a hand on her shoulder but Vinci shrieks and scoots backward. Tulle’s eyes widen at her sister’s left hand. There is no glove; the flesh cuts off at the wrist and only rot and bones protrude from then on. Tulle’s eyes water. She grits her teeth and instinctively draws her sword. She looks at the side, at the corpse.

She identifies it as Emile. The Breton, full of life just that night, is a withered husk.

 _He’s rotted away. He’s decayed. He… No. No._ She feels the tears come of her own accord. “Vinci. Vinci.”

“I didn’t mean to,” the woman sobs into her hands. “I didn’t—He—I—”

“Tell me you didn’t do this, Vinci.” Tulle begs of her sister, though she knows it is meaningless. She knows the magic cannot be undone. It is beyond the capabilities of a mortal, of _humans_. Not even the elves could fathom undoing Emile’s fate, just as they cannot undo Vinci’s. Tulle wipes her eyes with the back of her gloves. She grits her teeth at the lack of answer. “Did you use magic, Vinci?”

“I don’t—”

“ _Did you use magic to murder this man?!_ ” She screams the words, unable to contain the spike of emotions that blot out any good memories the night had. She ignores Vinci’s cower and points the sword at her. “Tell me what you did to him!”

“I saw it,” one Silver Hand, an older gentleman she recalls being named Emmanuel, speaks up quietly. He, like most of the Silver Hands, are tense if not rattled speechless. “He tried to… grab her. She pushed him away. There was a flash of red light.”

“ _Damnit,_ ” Tulle bellows the curse. “Damnit! Damnit! All to Oblivion! Why’d you have to kill him?! You asinine thing! After all we’ve struggled through! All I’ve done trying to keep you _safe_ and _alive—_ And you kill him anyways! You butchered him!”

“Tulle!” Krev barks at her. “Calm yourself.”

“How do you expect me to stay calm when this abomination is awake, Krev?” Tulle growls each syllable.

She ignores the horrified, fearful look in Vinci’s eyes. She can’t stand to look at the creature. Even if the thing is her sister, she cannot tolerate her right then. She sheathes her sword and turns to Krev. The man’s blue gaze is sympathetic, but firm.

“Then you think the same?” Krev asks quietly.

Tulle’s blue eyes dim. “I don’t—I don’t know what I think anymore.”

 _That’s a lie._ She knows, and she acknowledges it, but she feels a fury of confliction erode her resolve and willpower. The Silver Hand clenches her teeth.

“—Then we’ll kill her.” Krev states calmly.

The words ring some sense into the Silver Hand. She flinches and blinks at him. Krev moves past other Silver Hands and stops at Tulle’s side. He frowns. She drops her voice to a whisper, “You—You can’t. We can’t. You know what Reeves said—What my father—”

“Your father’s been dead for ten years. We’ve grown in power. Influence. Losing Emile is not good. But it can be amended. We are capable of rooting out the Cult of Namira on our own and preventing the ritual that created… this,” his hand gestures slightly to Vinci’s form. The latter has a blank stare in her eyes. Krev leans over to Tulle and continues in a whisper, “We don’t have to keep something like this around anymore. We have each other, Tulle. You and me. The Silver Hand. We are capable leaders. Our soldiers will listen to us and we can lead them across Skyrim, purging it of every last influence of the immortals.”

“You’re serious about killing her.” Tulle says softly.

Krev’s eyes harden. “We knew she wasn’t human to begin with. We are doing her an act of mercy in Stendarr’s name.”

“In Stendarr’s name,” Tulle shuts her eyes. “Okay. Okay. Let me do it.”

“You… up for that?” The man’s hand brushes her own but a moment.

“Aye. It will bring closure to this chapter of our lives.” The woman answers. She bows her head. “Please, Krev.”

“Alright,” his voice is soft and warm for her. “Do you want me here?”

“Yes,” Tulle inhales deeply. “Just… To the right side.”

The leader of the Silver Hands stands at Vinci’s side. Tulle watches Krev with a sad look. She turns her focus back to the thing in front of her, a crumpled mess of an abomination, of a creature that should never have walked the realm in the first place, and she draws her sword. She holds the silver-steel sword tight in both hands. The woman ignores the shock in Vinci’s green eyes, in the eyes of a corpse taken by an Ancient Darkness, and she forces herself to raise the blade. She sucks in a breath, and she remembers.

 _Promise me. Both of you. If anything were to happen to me—It is up to you two to watch over… Vinci._ Her father told her once.

 _I swear to it._ She had answered.

She took a vow once. She remembers her words.

Tulle drops the sword and slams it into Krev’s head. The man’s mouth hangs open and the room falls silent as she cleaves out a portion of his skull. His hair come with the cranium and mush of gray-pink brain matter as she draws the blade back and spins on her heels. Weapons are drawn from all around her but she makes her position clear in a single breath. “Try me.”

“Tulle…” Her sister says. “Tulle. What did you do to him?”

“Killed him.” Tulle barks. “Get to your feet. Don’t touch _anyone_ with your bare flesh. We’re leaving.”

“You murdered our leader,” the Silver Hand woman she recalls as Rachelle storms forward. Tulle huffs and ducks a feared swing. She knows her presence intimidates half the individuals in the hall; she counts on it to keep some back as she slams a knee into the woman’s gut and forces her back before she can swing again. Rachelle sputters and coughs when she crashes into three Silver Hands standing behind her.

It helps that half of the hall is drunk.

“On second thought, feel free to touch any of them, Vinci,” Tulle clears her throat. She points her blade around the room. “Since I bet half the lot here would love to meet Stendarr the same way Emile did!”

The Silver Hand kicks the husk across the floor.

“I’ll propose a solution that benefits all of us.” The woman shouts. She holds her long sword carefully with one hand and points back at Vinci with the other. “This woman is cursed! Whoever she touches will decay into Oblivion! I am offering to take her away from you all permanently. We will not return. We will not impede the faction’s future. You all are capable individuals… And you are smart enough to make the correct choice. Make it.”

“You bitch!” One Silver Hand blurts out and charges. Another two join the fray, though each is equally drunk as the rest. Tulle has no qualms with prey being put in its place; she knows the angles to cut through, the weak links of silver-steel armor, and the fastest way to incapacitate people. As the faction begins to swarm her, she finds herself doing less of the incapacitating and more of the _killing_.

She hears screams come from the sides when Vinci reaches out and grabs someone with her rotten hand. If Tulle had the time to think, she might find herself marveling at the horror of how deep the Ancient Darkness’s magic permeates her sister’s being. The power of the Daedric Prince is an endless pit, and the instant decay scratches but the surface. When the fifth person drops into a dried, rotten husk, the group of Silver Hands finally begins to disperse and thin out, with those who are less inclined toward immediate violence holding back and keeping out of arms-length. The body count ends at eighteen individuals, with seven of them husks and the other eleven slain by the nigh-sober warrior.

Tulle shoves the last Silver Hand to test his luck to the side. She yanks her longsword from his body and reaches for a set of gauntlets to toss at Vinci. Her sister doesn’t catch them; the woman recoils and they clang and bounce on the floor before coming to a stop. Vinci stoops to pick them up and her sister puts them on. Tulle turns to the rest of the hall and smiles politely at the remaining members. “Congratulations. You are now the leaders of the Silver Hand.”

“You don’t have to kill us. We’re—We’re with you—”

“No, you aren’t. Not with me. Not now.” Tulle exhales sharply. She grabs Vinci by the gauntlet and pulls her sister past the corpses, away from the repulse and the rot. The woman doesn’t dare breathe until the double doors of the fort slam shut behind them. She shoves her longsword between the door handles to lock it and then yanks Vinci forward. “The horses! C’mon! They know better than to let us walk out with our lives!”

“Where are we going?!” Vinci shouts after her as the two women run to the stables, tucked to the side within Fort Dusntad’s walls.

“Fort Neugrad! In Falkreath! That’s where my Silver Hands are at!” Tulle calls.

Slush neighs politely at her, still saddled from the day’s events. To Tulle’s surprise, Vinci makes a beeline for her horse and climbs up Slush’s back. She pats the front of the saddle and Tulle understands. The woman climbs to the front of the saddle and flicks the reins. She squeezes Slush’s belly with her legs and the horse breaks into a gallop instinctively.

Tulle forgot about the gate. She stares in horror at Fort Dunstad’s gate, shut and secure in front of them. She hears the double doors break and sees the gleam of crossbows in the darkness.

“I… I didn’t think about this. I’m sorry, Vinci. I’m sorry.” Tulle breathes the words.

She looks over her shoulder in time to see Vinci’s gaze darken. It horrifies her at the sight of the woman’s green eyes becoming darker and darker, until they are as pitch as the night—and then darker still, permeating and vile against the darkness of the night. Vinci climbs off the horse. Her sister looks up at her. “I never forgave you for abandoning me for ten years.”

The crossbows fire and Tulle instinctively kicks Slush to run. The horse rears, but it is not the former Silver Hand and her horse the crossbows point at. Tulle screams at her sister to move. A dozen bolts impale Vinci’s form, the silver ends gleaming in the starlight. Vinci staggers past them and to the gate. Tulle cusses her out and shouts at her to run, but Vinci ignores her. Her sister pulls off a gauntlet and lifts a rotten hand to the gate.

The rock erodes from Vinci’s touch, compelled by the power of the Ancient Darkness to bend and buckle under the weight of the world. Tulle and the Silver Hand members fall quiet in unison as the gate of Fort Dunstad wilt and wither away as if nothing more than a dried-out flower. Tulle shouts at her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not Vinci,” her sister repeats. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe I’m no one. No one at all.”

Tulle dismounts from her horse even as Silver Hands begin a struggle to reload their crossbows. She strides to her sister’s side and stares at her. “That’s not true—That’s not—”

“I can’t trust you.”

“Yes, you can—C’mon, let’s go—”

“Where? To Fort Neugrad? To the Silver Hand? I don’t want to be part of it. No. I’m saying no.” Vinci states coldly. She has tears in her eyes. “All this talk about me having a life free from the lot of _you_ —Silver Hands—Companions—None of it’s ever been true, has it? All of you—Liars! Lying to me! How could you do this to me?!”

Tulle’s eyes widen. She sees why her sister has not dropped dead yet. In spite the dozen crossbow bolts impaled into and through Vinci’s body, the woman does not bleed blood. She bleeds darkness, a thick and permeating mist that repulses and nauseates Tulle to witness.

“Divines, no, no, Vinci—Vinci! Listen to me! Vinci, please,” Tulle forces herself to leave Slush alone and walk to her sister, to the catastrophe of a soul plagued by the Ancient Darkness. She throws herself at Vinci and forces her hands to grip Vinci’s shoulders. “You are someone—You’ve always been someone—But that someone—That someone you’re part of—Is bad! I didn’t do it to _hurt you_ —I’m trying to keep you safe—Keep you safe from her!”

“You’re doing a shit job of it.” Vinci’s gauntlet shoves her sister’s hands off. The woman seethes at Tulle, anger eroding her features and concealing them behind thicker and thicker, encompassing darkness. “I’m through being hurt! I’m through others making decisions for me! I’m through—”

 _Twang._ The crossbows fire. Tulle gasps at the feeling of silver cutting into her flesh. Her eyes widen and she feels her knees buckle immediately. Vinci stares in horror as Tulle crashes into the ground, deep crimson pooling out of multiple points of impact.

 _Run._ Tulle mouths at the darkness. _Run. Run. Please. Please. Live. Live for me._

“What did you do to my sister?!” The voice that screams the words is not human, far from it.

Once upon a time, twenty or so years ago when she interrupted the Cult of Namira’s feast, Tulle recalls seeing the same creature move for the first time since death. She remembers what she asked of the corpse when darkness spurred it back to life and breathed into it the appearance of shadowed figure, opaque and featureless.

 _“Tulle!”_ Reeves once called out. _“Tulle! Get away from it! Get away! Krev!”_

She feels her heart’s ache in her chest. It is not just an ache, but a horrible, wretched cramp, a stab of hot silver-steel in the deepest part of her lungs, and the presence of foreign objects impaled in her body. She cannot move; so she doesn’t.

 _“Please don’t hurt me,”_ she once begged. _“Please—Don’t hurt us—!”_

 _“I don’t want to be hurt,”_ the creature told her back, beginning to weep unseen tears. _“I don’t want to be hurt anymore!”_

That was the moment she realized something was terrible off about the aspect of Namira. The manifestation of the Daedric Prince should have annihilated all of them on the spot, rotted them to decay and stepped over their bones before conquering Nirn and reaping the souls of mortals.

She remembers the shock in her father’s voice when he mustered up the courage to run to her and shove her behind him. She remembers the apprehension in his voice when he whispered under his breath. “ _By the Nine. Could it be? The feast was interrupted—The summoning failed—"_

Krev was a handful back then, but even then he had no words for that moment. He had stood, stunned and speechless, as Tulle pushed her father aside and approached the aspect with her hands up.

 _“Tulle! What are you doing—Get back here, get away from it—”_ Reeves had yelled.

 _“Hi there,”_ Tulle once whispered. _“I—I know you’re scared right now. But we won’t—We aren’t like… Those… people. Those people in,”_ she looked to the side _. “—Masks. We aren’t like them. We’re not going to hurt you.”_

 _“Who are you?”_ The aspect spoke twenty years ago.

_“My name—Tulle. I’m Tulle. Who are you?”_

_“I don’t know.”_ The creature begins to weep and mourn in the memory; she remembers she could offer it nothing of comfort.

Tulle envisions herself, a teenager, gaze dim and reluctant but still determined to make a connection with the thing before her. She struggles to breathe in and finds words. _“Then… You can be whoever you want to be. Like… someone strong. Do you know anyone strong? You can be like them.”_

_“Strong. Strong like… Strong like him.”_

She remembers watching the creature go from a being of Ancient Darkness to the same flesh-and-blood of herself, of Krev, of her father. She remembers watching the black hair grow from a bald head, she remembers watching empty eye-sockets fill in green, and she remembers seeing the teenager come alive with no hint of awareness to the mess of the feast hall. It is nauseating to watch, but she knows she never tore her eyes off the repulsive sight. She must do the memory justice.

 _“Who are you?”_ Tulle had asked again. _“I’m Tulle. Who are you?”_

 _“The strongest person I know,”_ the aspect told her once. _“I’m Vinci.”_

 _You’re not Namira. You’re Vinci._ She feels the present wash over her and take her from her thoughts. The pain recedes. Her mind blanks.

The last thing Tulle hears before she dies is the sound of Silver Hands screaming.


	26. a little bit of happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kodlak whitemane is finally put to rest. the circle comes together to discuss their plans for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story isn't over!! but it is the last chapter before a timeskip so the ending certainly makes it seem like it is over :0  
> i don't want to spoil what i have planned but i can say i like happy endings they just take time to get to hehe

Snow falls slowly from a mid-winter sky the day of the funeral. The Imperial man stands with his Shield-Siblings at the Skyforge, where the Companion’s blacksmith carries a sheet-covered corpse up the steps and to the forge. Eorlund carefully lays the body of Kodlak Whitemane to rest in the coals fueling the forge. Though the smell of preservatives and aromatic herbs melds with decomposing flesh, none of the Companions dare laugh or gag out of respect for the Harbinger who led them so long. The Dragonborn’s gaze dims as he stares at the sight.

The Companions never found Kodlak’s head in Fort Dunstad.

Rune’s hands clench into fists. He inhales silently and forces his body to relax. Next to him, he catches Farkas giving him a look of concern. Rune meets his gaze and manages a smile. The Dragonborn faces front after and watches Eorlund set the coals of the Skyforge alight. Slowly, the flames burn away the sheet and take the decapitated corpse in the embrace of fire.

“Who will start?” Eorlund calls. The man’s eyes are watery. It is truly the only time Rune has ever seen the legendary blacksmith express anything other than impatience for others to get out of the way of his work.

 _They were friends._ Rune acknowledges. The Dragonborn steps forward and raises a hand. He feels the eyes of all other Companions, of Hold Guards, of Jarl Balgruuf himself and of dozens of Whiterun’s populace crammed together in the background, all on him. Rune does not let stage fright mar his words as he strides to the forge’s side and faces the crowd. _For such a crowd to gather… Kodlak. Shield-Brother. You are missed. You were loved. You still are._

“Before the ancient flame,” he remembers hearing Aela practicing the words once, just after he had joined. Another whelp met an unfortunate end at the hands of a rash Nordic woman. Rune had not understood the importance of last rites for a stranger, even if they were a Companion too. He knows better now. The man inhales deeply and continues. “We grieve.”

“We grieve,” Farkas repeats.

“We grieve.” Ria whispers.

“We grieve.” Vilkas breathes.

Eorlund nods at the group, Companions and citizens alike. “At this loss… we weep.”

“We weep!” Rune calls out.

“—We weep.” Farkas bites his lip.

“We,” Athis clears his throat. “We weep.”

“We weep!” Vilkas strides to Rune’s side and faces the crowd. The man is his own mess, but he holds himself together, or so Rune perceives. Rune gives him a nod and Vilkas continues. “For the fallen… we shout.”

“We shout!” Torvar bellows the words.

Njada and Ria alike join in. _“We shout!”_

“We shout,” Rune’s eyes soften. He meets Farkas’s gaze once more.

Farkas walks to the side of the Circle members. The man looks across the crowd of people. Rune wants to take his hand and squeeze it, offer an out-of-place joke or a remark of Earth he knows Farkas can only pretend to understand, but he holds back. He cannot offer comfort right then. He hopes his gaze is enough to convey the yearning he feels.

“And for ourselves,” Farkas gives the last rite slowly, every word articulate and practiced. “We take our leave.”

“We take our leave.” Eorlund bows his head.

“We take our leave.” Vilkas whispers.

“We take our leave.” Rune utters.

One-by-one, each Companion present, including the newest whelps to join, recite the same phrase.

Eorlund looks to the Circle members. Rune counts the names. _Eorlund. Farkas. Rune. And… Vilkas._

Without a Harbinger, the Circle accepts Vilkas into its folds once more. Rune feels in the pocket of his civilian clothes, where Kodlak’s journal lays bound and secure. He knows Eorlund must understand the dead man’s wishes, for the Harbinger must start with the Circle and Vilkas must not be turned away from it. The Dragonborn agrees with the blacksmith. When Eorlund calls for crowd to disperse, it is a cue to draw back and meet at the Underforge later. The afternoon becomes one spent of mourning across the town of Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf offers each of the Companions personal condolences before the man departs for the Dragonsreach.

Kodlak Whitemane is dead, but he was loved.

 _No, Shield-Brother. You are loved. Your memories live on in each of us._ Rune’s gaze dims as he stares out across Jorrvaskr’s training grounds, full of quiet people who mourn their own way. Some weep. Some bawl. Some cry silent tears. Others refuse to express it publicly. He sees Vilkas be the latter, and Farkas the kind to mourn but not aloud. Rune’s own heart aches through the hours. One-month past, and he has not forgotten stumbling upon the gruesome sight of Kodlak’s headless body.

 _So, we get to talk about… that, then. Fun._ The Dragonborn grimaces.

Evening comes with a vengeance. By the time of night, snow falls in droves. It is miserable moving in extra layers of fur outside on the short walk to the Underforge. Rune meets Farkas and Vilkas there. Eorlund is yet to be seen, though Rune anticipates the other two have zero desire to wait. When Farkas opens the Underforge, he follows the werewolf and Vilkas inside. It feels good to be out of the cold, but the sight of a bird fountain baffles him.

“…Why is…?” The Dragonborn swallows. It dawns on him with a babble of, “—Oh. Oh. That’s an _altar._ Right. Nevermind.”

Vilkas pinches the bridge of his nose. Rune gives the man credit; he has not seen him drink since the group’s return from the Pale. “Well then. He’s… gone.”

“Couldn’t find the head. Do you think he’s… mad at us? For… That.” Farkas’s eyes dim. He looks to the side.

Vilkas’s entire body tenses. His hands clench and he grits his teeth. “No—No. _No._ Kodlak wouldn’t look ill of you, brother. No. Don’t think that. Talos, Farkas, don’t think that. We did what we could!”

“We looked,” Farkas holds his head in his hands. “Was that enough? Did we look _enough?_ ”

“It was.” Vilkas cuts him off from further words.

Rune bites his lip. He crosses his arms. “…You saw the fort. There was… no distinguishing the bones in that place.”

_Fort Dunstad._

The trio embarked for it immediately after Rune and Vilkas heard of Kodlak’s murder. Skyrim’s snowstorms dawdled them too long, forced Farkas to push his werewolf senses to the limit in attempting to track the scent of Leilani Whitemane across roads and wildlands. In the end, they found the fort. They found it a wilted skeleton of what Farkas remembered, a nightmare of itself even in death. The bodies came in dozens. Every skeleton was merely bones, stripped off all flesh, decayed beyond comprehension to the point even Farkas could not identify any by smell.

It was a massacre of most of the Silver Hand. None of them saw it as a victory. Rune felt only remorse they died such violent, horrific deaths.

“Let’s not talk about this.” Vilkas says in a low voice. The man’s shoulders slump, “I can’t… I don’t want to think about her anymore.”

“Sorry,” Rune frowns.

Perhaps the only thing more haunting than the sight of Fort Dunstad’s dead was the agonized panic and denial in Vilkas that day. The Dragonborn remembers the sight of the man tearing through decayed doors and broken walls, sifting through rubble and screaming for a dead woman. It had culminated in the Dragonborn shouting him down and Farkas dragging him from the fort’s ruins while the latter’s brother wept.

Rune never wants to see any of the Companions in that state again. He feels ill at the thought.

“Let’s talk about Kodlak,” The Dragonborn clears his throat. He feels for the Harbinger’s journal in his pocket and looks at both Companions one at a time. “About his last wishes. I know… We talked a little of it before, when we decided it was time to… Yeah.”

“To put him to rest.” Farkas states bluntly.

Rune sighs. “Yeah. Yeah. To put him to rest. You know… With just us three—Well, four with Eorlund—We have to make decisions about the blood going forward. I think I’ve hung around you two enough to both get under your skin and understand your stance on it. I know Kodlak spoke plenty of his disapproval of the blood.” He hopes a lighthearted remark eases the atmosphere, but it doesn’t. The mood in the Underforge remains dark and dreary.

Vilkas sucks in a deep gulp of air. “We have no need to continue the tradition of spreading the blood’s… burden. No more.”

“No more.” Farkas nods.

“Then, I need to ask. How do you think Kodlak would want us to handle the lycanthropy now?” Rune presses the two for an answer. He knows, he has read the dead man’s journal front-to-back thrice now, but he wants to hear it with his own ears.

He sees Farkas hesitate. “…He wanted to be cured.”

“He wanted to be _clean,_ ” Vilkas interjects. The Nord grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, full of shame at the thought his following words entail. “And he… He didn’t get that. The old man had _one wish._ One wish—To be clean! To be free of the blood! He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde! But that was taken from him.”

“It can still be done,” Rune offers the two.

Vilkas’s pale brown eyes widen and lock unto the Dragonborn’s form. “Shield-Brother—Are you suggesting—The legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor—”

“You know, you and Aela never shut up about that when I first joined.” Rune runs a hand through his hair. “I might have a shot memory, but Aela and you batted the stories of old yonder back and forth like balls on a court! Not that… Well, maybe Skyrim has games involving balls and courts. Maybe—Or—No, no, not getting off track,” He drops his hands to his sides and huffs. “Look, Aela said the legend was something like, what? _‘The souls of Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel!’_ Well, we don’t have steel. We have dwarven metal. Close enough. I believe she had truth to the words. Do you?”

“I do,” the voice comes blunt and loud as the Underforge opens and Eorlund steps inside. Farkas shuts it behind him. Eorlund strides forward and looks at each of the Circle. “Legends begin with a grain of truth. Kodlak believed that.”

In the dim light of the Underforge, it takes a moment for Rune to see a weapon in the blacksmith’s hands. His eyes widen. “Is that…”

“It best be. I put my finest in smithing the shards together again.” The blacksmith grunts. He hands the weapon to Rune, who struggles not to drop it immediately. It is a Warhammer, and a beautiful one at that. The Dragonborn is left speechless at the blacksmith’s work; not a hint of wear or cracks remain on the weapon. Eorlund snorts at Rune’s ogling and nods in approval. “The flames of a hero can reforge what is broken… Another legend, that. But Kodlak’s flames have birthed the _Wuuthrad_ anew. It will take you to meet him in the Tomb of Ysgramor.”

“Then… We can actually do it. We can cleanse him,” Vilkas’s eyes begin to water. He wipes them quickly. “Divines be praised.”

“We should leave for the Tomb immediately.” Farkas states. The werewolf nods at Eorlund and Vilkas. He turns to Rune. “Will you come with us?”

“Yeah, you’ll need it,” Rune jests with a faint smile. It warms him to no end that the man smiles back at him. The Dragonborn turns to the others. “Tomorrow—Dawn. We ride for the Tomb.”

“Aye,” Vilkas agrees. The man looks across the Underforge. “Dawn, then.”

That should be the end of the conversation, but when the four depart the Underforge Rune notices Farkas lingers back. The Dragonborn huffs and waits for him to emerge under the snowy clouds. The two make the short walk back to Jorrvaskr and enter its halls. No one is upstairs but the two. Rune exhales softly at how quiet the mead hall is. He sees Farkas pause and the Dragonborn stops mid-step. The Imperial raises a brow at the werewolf and stares expectantly.

“So.” Rune states.

“So.” Farkas exhales sharply. “Feels like… a chapter of life is over. For me. For my brother.”

“Because of Kodlak?” Rune tilts his head to one side. He frowns. “Or Leilani?”

“Both.” The werewolf rubs the back of his head. His gaze shifts to the side. “…Please don’t… share this with my brother. Rune. But. The day it happened—Kodlak—I remember the man said something strange. Just before he… You know.”

The Dragonborn pauses. Rune’s lips stretch into a tight frown. “What do you mean?”

“—I went to get him that night after… Leilani said something about a river called White River. And his face… I dunno how to describe it. He was so solemn. Serious. Told me he knew exactly what it meant. Then we went to Leilani and… he sent me away.” The words hang heavy in the air. Farkas bites his lip. “I smelled his blood a few minutes later. Ran out and found the Silver Hand with a sword in her hand. Him, dead.”

“I think he knows that already. How things went down.” Rune offers the words gently but firmly. His gaze narrows. “Don’t put blame on yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

“That’s not it.” Farkas shakes his head.

“Okay, so what is ‘it’ then?” The Dragonborn presses the question.

“—There was a moment in the scuffle afterward—Leilani tackled me. She was hit by a crossbolt. But I was furious. I didn’t—I didn’t even consider until later—That was meant for me,” Farkas grits his teeth. When he looks at Rune, his eyes hold tears waiting to fall. “—She aided someone in killing Kodlak. I know that. He knows that. She isn’t the one who killed him! But the murderer—That person would’ve shot me down too if Leilani hadn’t… If she didn’t…”

Rune’s chest aches at the pain in the man’s voice. “Hey. Hey—She had her reasons too. I’m sure. Even… if she wound up being the Silver Hand we feared she was. She cared about you.”

“Rune—Rune, I told the Captain to put her in a cell. I threw her back into darkness. The murderer took her away! Took her to _Dunstad!”_ the werewolf begins to cry. He can’t wipe his own tears fast enough. His voice becomes a hiss. “I can’t ask her why now. I can’t ask what went through her head. She’s dead.”

“She is,” Rune says softly. He can’t stop himself; it hurts too much to see Farkas in such a state. He wraps his arms around the werewolf and holds him tight as the man grieves and mourns and regrets. He stands like that, one hand stroking Farkas’s messy hair, until the Companion’s tears run out and his breathing calms. When Farkas draws back, Rune offers a messy smile at him. He tries to sound optimistic and upbeat as he offers, “You know. Vilkas feels a lot of shit right now, too. But I don’t think he blames you for any of it. Sometimes, uh, things are just—Beyond our control, you know? We do our best.”

The werewolf exhales shakily and nods. “Our best.”

“Our best.” Rune repeats. He lets go of Farkas and makes to leave when a hand catches his and gently holds on. The Dragonborn frowns and looks over at the werewolf. “Farkas—”

Farkas leans down and presses his lips against Rune’s. The latter stills immediately, face blown up by a sudden influx of heat. It lasts such a short time before Farkas draws away, Rune almost begins to doubt it happened at all. The Dragonborn gawks at the werewolf and sputters a mess of different syllables before giving up on complicated sentence structure and blurting out. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Farkas stares.

“Okay,” Rune mumbles. He can’t offer words, so he emulates what he knows Farkas knows best. The man takes action; he cups the werewolf’s face and kisses him deeply. He feels the werewolf’s form tense under his hands before Farkas relaxes against him and claims his lips. The second time the two break away both are a flustered, blushing mess. Rune manages to clear his throat and look the werewolf in the eye. “—So. Uh. Do you—”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t finish the question,” the Dragonborn points out. He squawks at Farkas leaning in and seizing his lips for himself. Rune breathes the words against the man’s lips, “—Do you want to try going on a d—”

Farkas stops and leans away, not for air but to snort. The werewolf wraps arms around the Dragonborn and pulls him into a tight embrace. “—I want to be with you.”

“I’m okay with that,” Rune says quietly, unable to think of anymore words when the man makes to kiss him again.

Maybe a chapter of the two Companions lives are over, but the Dragonborn imagines a new one begins. In his mind, it is full of snarky jokes, witty commentary, and even a little bit of happiness. 


	27. six years later: still an improvement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dragonborn's idea of trying to use a palace to trap a dragon might be the most asinine thing vilkas has ever heard of. but the dragonborn's also his brother-in-law, so he gets to show support for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello welcome to the start of the timeskip... and finally... FINALLY... A GROUP I'VE MEANT TO WRITE BACK IN SINCE THE FIRST CONSUMERISM STORY... bringing back the forsworn (confetti)
> 
> TW's for this chapter:  
> -mentions of child loss / death  
> -mentions of pregnancy  
> -mentions of stillbirth
> 
> (as an aside, lucia 100% styles her hair after her uncle because she looks up to him, this is canon)

The windows of Dragonsreach give way to brilliant sunshine falling across Whiterun. The town is alive and busy on the spring day. Citizens hurry between shops, merchants call out their wares, and Hold Guards chat with one another with heads held high. The peace tastes _exquisite_.

It is welcome given the painful gridlock the civil war has left the entire country in the few years.

Though the tensions existed long before then, the assassination of High King Torygg in 201E forced things to reach a critical boiling point. As Harbinger of the Companions, Vilkas does not derive enjoyment dabbling about politics. He aims to keep the Companions out of political mishaps and maydays and ensure the citizens of Whiterun are kept safe. The peace Jarl Balgruuf provides Whiterun by maintaining neutrality in light being sandwiched between two sides of increasing violence across the country is something to commend, admire, and strive toward.

Which is precisely why his brother-in-law’s request annoys him. The Companions are not meant to be involved in politics. They are fighters, warriors, and hunters. Rune’s insistence on him attending a grandiose meeting makes the forty-year-old-man tired. If his brother-in-law wasn’t the _Dragonborn,_ legendary prophesized warrior with the spirit of a dragon vested inside him, Vilkas might have skipped the whole thing. No, he knows he would skip it. He has patience, but patience for politics is little, and the whole thing seems political to a degree.

“Look, just stand there and look pretty. Is that so hard? I’m sure mister grand-slam up there will appreciate the Companions being present in case anything goes wrong! Which it might. Probably not. Hopefully.” The Dragonborn says on the walk up to Dragonsreach that morning.

Vilkas sighs in response. “You ask too much sometimes, Rune.”

“Hey—It’s not my fault Farkas said _yes,”_ The man retorts. His eyes are bright as the amber found in a clear glass of mead when he goes on, “If you didn’t want me around, you should’ve said something in Riften. Now you’re stuck dealing with all of _this,”_ Rune’s gesture at his entire body is theatrical and flamboyant. “And that includes questionable requests like borrowing a couple Companions to _hypothetically_ trap a dragon in Dragonsreach.”

“I was not going to interrupt my brother’s _wedding_ day—” That is the only thing Vilkas gets out before Rune cuts the conversation short.

Which leads to _now:_ a gathering of court officials in Dragonsreach’s feast hall, where Vilkas finds himself being on the spot when the bearded older Nord of a Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, calls him forward and asks him directly. “—Harbinger. Your presence here is unexpected but welcome. Are you here to pledge support for the Dragonborn’s request?”

“The safety of Whiterun and its peoples concerns all the Companions. Not merely a man with a title.” Vilkas replies with a nod. He straightens upright and meets the Jarl’s blue gaze.

It is clear the past six years have made a mark on the Jarl. He is not nearly the toned, muscular man he was years past. His blond hair has begun to gray and thin. Wrinkles sag under his eyes and across his forehead. Jarl Balgruuf’s ornate clothes look larger on him than before, a hint the man has begun to thin out spite of an endless supply of food. It is an important reminder to Vilkas. _Age comes for all in the end. None of us can escape it. None of us can escape time._

“My Lord, perhaps we should reconsider a gathering at this time… it seems the eyes of every person in the castle are on us. If this is sensitive information—” The Jarl’s steward, a bald and old man by the name of Proventus Avenicci, begins to speak up.

“If the Companions put their swords behind the Dragonborn, I trust he has good reason to barge in here like this unannounced.” Jarl Balgruuf cuts his steward off. He leans back in his throne and gestures at Rune to step forward. “Dragonborn! My friend. May the Gods watch over your battles. Please, speak to the court. You have our attention.”

“So.” Rune sucks in a breath and glances across the hall.

He hasn’t changed much in six years, aside from making his hair even messier than it already was. Vilkas does not understand how his brother doesn’t attack Rune’s hair with a comb, a brush, _something to get the mess under control_. Rune’s brown hair is an unkempt mess regardless day or night, sun or shine, and it falls to the Imperial’s chin in messy curls.

Notably, the Dragonborn dons a beautiful mess of armor made of light chaurus chitin. It is the only way Rune comes close to intimidating, because the thirty-four-year-old man is still the friendly mess he was when he first walked into Jorrvaskr asking for a _‘job application.’_ Vilkas suspects Rune does not wear the chitin armor for that reason, but merely out of preference for how it looks and feels. He himself knows the dwarven wolf armor Eorlund smithed years ago is far easier to move and fight in than leathers. A warrior’s comfort on the battlefield is essential to success.

“I need your help, my Jarl.” Rune jabs a thumb at his chest. “I need to trap a dragon inside your palace.”

The mortified expression on Balgruuf’s face, buggy eyes and all, almost draws a smile out of Vilkas. He keeps his expression calm and neutral not to impede the discussion.

Balgruuf clears his throat and, after a long minute, he eyes Rune carefully. “I must have misheard you. I thought you asked me to help you trap a _dragon_ in my _palace_.”

“Yeah. Well.” Rune shrugs amicably. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“I…” Balgruuf runs a hand through his hair. The man shakes his head and sits upright. “I—No. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. We’ll just have to keep fighting the dragons as best we can.”

Though words of agreement filter through court officials and the Jarl’s steward, Vilkas keeps his gaze on the Dragonborn. He tilts his head to one side and gives Rune a slight nod to continue. The Dragonborn swallows and nods in return before facing forward. The Imperial’s brown eyes darken. “—Jarl Balgruuf—I _need_ your help. I am asking you as the Dragonborn. I _need_ to trap a dragon in your palace!”

“Rune—Dragonborn—What you’re asking for is…” Jarl Balgruuf rises to his feet. He shakes his head. “Impossible! You want me to let a _dragon_ into the heart of my city? With the threat of war on my doorstep?”

“It’s the only way to stop the dragon attacks—”

“There must be another way!” Balgruuf shouts at the Imperial. His fists clench. “The risk is too great.”

“Greater than _Alduin?_ ” The name falls from Rune’s lips and spurs the room into silence. Color drains from the faces of the Jarl and his court. Rune strides forward and looks around the hall, calling out to each member of the court in unison. “Listen to me! I come to you as Dragonborn asking for your help. The threat is worse than any of us knows! Alduin has returned. The World-Eater lives once again. He vies to make the sky fall and plunge Skyrim into the tyranny of dragons.”

It had shocked Vilkas when Rune first came to him and said the words. Even now, Vilkas finds anxiety flitting around his stomach. He detests the emotion. He inhales deep breaths to calm himself and looks at Balgruuf.

The Jarl collapses back into his throne. He shudders and exhales. “Alduin…? The World-Eater…? But… How can we fight _him?_ Doesn’t his return mean the end times?”

“Yep. Trying to prevent that.” Rune states dryly. He grits his teeth. “Look, my Lord. It’s only hopeless if we give up—”

“I didn’t say anything about giving up,” Jarl Balgruuf snaps. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs wearily. “Now, Dragonborn, what’s this nonsense about trapping a dragon in my palace?”

By the time Rune meets Vilkas outside Dragonsreach, both men look tired. The former looks optimistic about the whole ordeal. Vilkas stares at him as the two descend the steps back to the Clouds District of Whiterun, with Rune leading the charge.

“I think it went well.” The Dragonborn declares loudly. He crosses his arms and looks thoughtful when the two pass by residential homes and trot down flights of stairs to a tall, young tree. The new Gildergreen has yet to come to its full potential, and will not for four more years, but what began as a tiny sapling is now a sturdy trunk with dozens of branches spiraling out and offering a beautiful green canopy. Rune nods at it approvingly before the duo move on. “Granted, I’ll have to make plans to travel to Solitude _and_ Windhelm. But I figure the kids and Farkas could use a little time out of Whiterun. Now for the Greybeards—That’ll be different. I was thinking those seven-thousand-steps will be too much for Lucia and Alesan, even if they would love to see the Throat of the World…”

The Dragonborn continues to speak, but for a moment the Harbinger stops in his steps.

 _Have you gone to the Throat of the World yet? One of my mothers used to tell me stories about it. About seeing the stars. Little bits of Aetherius peeking through!_ The voice rings in his head, as clear as it did a day six years ago. Vilkas’s gaze dims at the thought. He feels his chest begin to ache. _You sounded so happy then. So alive._

 _No._ He makes himself cease entertaining the thought further. He has not thought of the dead woman in months. Generally, the memories of Leilani Whitemane, of _Vinci_ , do not plague him, but they occasionally filter through his head. They mess with his emotions. They stumble his attempts to move on and let go a second time. But he does. He finds a way to forget the sound of the woman’s voice again, the deep greens of dead eyes, and Vilkas continues his life. He wept enough over the years; he will not weep for her again.

There are other things and people to mourn. Vilkas finds the memory hits him in the face when he sees Njada sitting in the mead hall at the table, watching one of the new whelps attempt to out-drink Torvar to no avail. Njada Stonearm’s hair is long and pulled back into a bun. The woman looks well, though she doesn’t offer anything but apathy when her gaze meets his. The two never returned to speaking terms after the stillbirth. Vilkas hopes she has found her own way to mourn and grieve. He makes a note to stop at the Hall of the Dead later; it is due time to replace the flowers on the two’s nameless infant’s coffin.

“How can you drink two drink so much? Is it a thing of man?” A Bosmer with white hair and a sharp jawline comments on Torvar’s and the new whelp’s drinking competition. Vaguely, Vilkas recalls the wood elf to be named Faendal, recruited from Riverwood two months prior. Faendal’s pale skin practically melts into the mess of white-fur armor he dons, a sharp contrast to most of the tanned pelts seen in the Companion’s gear.

“—It’s a _gift_ ,” Torvar hiccups. The Nord grins cheekily at Vilkas and waves before turning attention back to the whelp at his side. “You see? Can’t be beat! Not— _hic_ —now! Not ever!”

The whelp at his side is a man in his fifties with dark brown skin and black hair plaited into dozens of braids running down his back. Vilkas knows him as Amran, a Redguard who sought a place among the Companions after his wife went missing and left him to raise his daughter, Braith, alone. Vilkas gives Amran a nod, but the latter is preoccupied with Faendal’s comment.

“ _Hic—_ You haven’t seen— _hic_ —drinks like this before?” Amran’s brown eyes narrow on the bosmer. He points a drunk finger at the man accusingly. “Come! Join us. _Hic._ ”

“I’d prefer not,” the bosmer chuckles softly. He has a bright smile. “Trying to keep my liver functioning. Those at the Temple say alcohol is a sin.”

“Why’d you— _hic_ —join the Companions if ya wanted to be pure?” Torvar grumbles and pours another glass.

“I never said I refrained from it,” Faendal takes a seat near Njada, who blinks at him before turning attention back to the two drunkards. The wood elf reaches for a bottle of alto wine and uncorks it. “If you require proof so badly, I will oblige. But only a cup. I worry for my liver’s safety and well-being.”

Vilkas leaves the four at the table and walks downstairs. He can hear Rune’s chatter from the living quarter’s main hall. The man debates seeking out Farkas and speaking with them both, but opts against it. The two deserve a moment of privacy once in awhile, especially when three young Companions run rampant. One of the latter bumps into him and knocks him out of his thoughts. Vilkas snorts and pats the young teenager’s head. “What is it?”

“Protect me!” Alesan’s words are surprisingly fearful. “Lucia and Braith are coming! They’ll make me practice swords!”

“What’s wrong with that?” The man inquires of his nephew.

“I don’t want to practice swords! I want to practice _arrows!_ ” The teenager exclaims. Alesan looks around hurriedly. When two teenage girls come running down the stairs to the living quarters, the boy yelps and ducks behind his uncle.

The Dragonborn’s children present many interesting challenges. For what is _definitely_ very serious matters, the two youngsters take it upon themselves to liven up the place in almost every way possible. Alesan and Lucia are both fourteen years of age, with Lucia having just hit her rebellious streak that spring. The former is a Redguard Rune and Farkas adopted following a trip to Dawnstar two years back. The youth’s skin reflects his Redguard heritage; Alesan has his biological parent’s brown skin and textured black hair. It is currently plaited into braided locks. The teenager wears a heavy tunic and thick fur-lined pants made for trudging in Skyrim’s snow.

Lucia, on the other hand, is a mischievous imp of an Imperial teenager with ghostly white skin and brown hair. She’s a spitting image of Rune, down to the eyes, and if the Dragonborn hadn’t mentioned adopting her, Vilkas knows the two could pass as biologically related. In his mind, they might as well be. Lucia shares the Dragonborn’s humor and sass, along with the optimism and upbeat tendencies Rune exhibits daily. The teenage girl is dressed in a set of Ria’s old fur armor, big but still capable of fitting the tall lass. Notably, her hair is pulled back in a low-ponytail, falling just past her shoulders.

Vilkas knows why. He eyes his niece carefully as she approaches with another teenage girl linked arm-in-arm.

Braith, whom Vilkas recalls being Amran’s daughter, turns thirteen the start of summer that year. Unlike Lucia’s armor, Braith wears heavy robes in deep blue and red patterns. The girl’s skin is dark brown, and her hair is a curly black that falls to her chin. If he had to guess why the two are linked in arm, Vilkas would quote Rune in calling the two something called ‘best friends.’

“Uncle! Tell Alesan to come practice with us,” Lucia huffs and puffs out her chest. She eyes the teenage boy hiding behind him with the ferocity of a hunter seeking prey.

 _Divines help Rune and Farkas. Those two are going to need it once this one starts going on hunts._ Vilkas thinks.

“He wants to practice arrows,” the Harbinger states calmly. He crosses his arms and looks from Lucia to Braith. “You three should consider a compromise.”

“Compromise?” Braith whispers to Lucia.

His niece frowns. “He’s just saying that because he’s _the_ Harbinger. He has to be diplomatic.”

“Hey—Hey, diplomats resolve problems! Don’t insult Uncle Vilkas ‘cause you don’t got your way!” Alesan exclaims. The teenage boy steps out momentarily to jab a finger at Lucia. “Like he said! We should consider a _compromise!”_

As Lucia and Alesan began to quarrel back-and-forth, Braith pulls away from her ‘best friend’ and looks up at Vilkas. The Harbinger blinks at her, uncertain of what to say. He’s surprised to hear her ask in a voice soft as a mouse, “Could—Could you please help us find a compromise? Har—Harbinger.”

 _She’s nervous,_ Vilkas assesses. He realizes why: he is a tall, intimidating figure with a legacy and reputation behind him. He lowers his arms to his side in attempt to look less scary. Vilkas clears his throat and nods. “Of course. Lucia! Alesan! If the two of you are done.”

The two siblings freeze in place and look up at their uncle. They back away from each other. 

“Lucia, perhaps you’d consider helping Alesan with target practice for a bit? Braith, you as well. The two of you could run out and retrieve arrows for him, or tell him when his aim is off. And, afterward, Alesan, you might consider sparring with Lucia and Braith to help them improve their forms?” The Harbinger finds it a bit of a stretch, but he is pleasantly surprised when the three teenagers nod slowly at the idea.

“Will you help me with my arrows?” Alesan asks the two girls quietly.

Lucia sucks in a breath and shrugs. “Yeah, yeah—It’ll be a warm-up! Helping train my legs for running back and forth in battle!”

“Mine too,” Braith adds in after, the twelve-year-old’s brown eyes warm at the thought. Braith mimes striking down an opponent with an invisible sword.

It reminds Vilkas to give the three a stern warning, “Use the _wooden_ swords.”

“What? But—But the iron swords are so pretty!” Lucia protests endlessly. She doesn’t stick around for too long; when a door opens and Rune’s voice begins to trickle out from the quarters of the Circle on the left side, the teenager grabs Braith and exclaims. “That’s my dad—Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Alesan and Vilkas watch the duo race up the stairs. When Rune steps into the hall and spots Alesan, the Dragonborn grins and runs over to give his son a hug. Alesan squawks. “Dad—Dad— _Dad—Dad!!”_

“You’re so tall!” Rune declares.

“I was already tall!” Alesan sputters. “You did the same this morning!”

“I’m so proud, look at my tall boy, growing up so quickly,” the Dragonborn wipes his eyes. He releases Alesan and turns to Vilkas as Farkas trudges to the group quietly. Rune raises a brow. “Did I miss Lucia? She left the dishes out last night and I need to talk to her about it.”

“You did,” Alesan and Vilkas answer in unison. Alesan smiles sheepishly. “Speaking of _dishes_ —I should—I got to go practice. Swords. Arrows. With her. And Braith. So if you want to find her later—That’s where we’ll all be!”

“He’s a good kid.” Vilkas comments when the teenager has run off to join the other youths upstairs and outside in the training grounds. The Harbinger crosses his arms once more and looks at the two. He notes how Rune effortlessly gravitates toward Farkas, happier than a clam slouching against his brother’s arm. The Harbinger’s gaze softens. _Those two deserve to be happy._

“He wants to be a mage.” Farkas sighs. The Nord looks to the side. “What do I say to that?”

“I told you, the College of Mages in Winterhold is _great,_ I went there once and—”

“I was with you.”

“Well, Farkas, you were _quiet_. As I was saying, I went there once and—”

“Mm,” Vilkas zones out of the story. He has heard it a dozen times before. Rune exploded an entire livings quarter on accident. No one died. The Dragonborn considers it a success and the mark of an exciting tale to retell over the dinner table. When the Dragonborn finishes, Vilkas speaks up quickly. “I actually needed to get to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Right.” Rune steps aside and waves him goodbye.

The Harbinger can hear him and Farkas talk about Winterhold as he walks away. The man doesn’t stop until he’s inside his room. He shuts the door of the main room behind him and sighs heavily. _Things are messier without a person to clean up after us. Need to talk to the entire Circle about possibly delegating duties to each Companion. Rune and Farkas are likely to agree with me. Athis and Ria are wildcards._

It is well-worth not having to worry about a spy anymore. The discovery of Tilma aiding the Silver Hand and her subsequent execution lifted a weight from his shoulders. Finally, the distrust among Companions could heal. The lack of trust and cooperation between Companions was the real problem; the Silver Hand has not been a genuine threat as of six years ago.

 _Since…_ Vilkas’s eyes shut. He breathes in slowly. _No. No. Twice in one day. No. That’s enough. I’m not dawdling on the past._

He finds it much harder to block out the thoughts the second time. The man walks to the end of his quarter’s and pulls open the bedchamber door. He walks to the side of his bed, pulls a book from the bedside table, and picks up an inkwell and quill to write with. Journaling is his way of sorting his thoughts; it is also one of the ways Kodlak Whitemane left an impact on him. He has an appreciation for the late Harbinger for showing him how important it is to have a place to vent and reflect on. Even if he cannot stand to say it aloud, or bring it up to another, he lets the thoughts and feelings of everything inside him come out unto the black pages of the book.

On this day, he is both Vilkas the Harbinger and Vilkas of twenty-six years ago. The man and the boy both have things to process, to think, to say, and to admit, and the words fall as freely as his hair when he finally gives in to pausing in his writing and pulling it free from its ponytail.

Where as his brother sought to cut his hair short and neat over the years, Vilkas finds he enjoys the feeling of his hair hanging over him. It feels like a shield or a protective ward. It shows he is not the same man as before. He has grown, and so has his hair, and there is nothing more to it. Though he eventually pulls off his gauntlets and greaves to write more comfortably, the man doesn’t care to fully doff his dwarven wolf set. He anticipates having to go outside his room later that day and, sure enough, when the Nord is mid-quillstroke, he hears a knock from the door connecting what is essentially a foyer-room to the living quarter’s hall. Vilkas rises, shoves his feet back into his boots and his hands into his gauntlets, and strides out of the bedchamber and to the door. He pulls it open and blinks in surprise at the sight of a Circle member waiting there.

The dark elf, Athis, has as many wrinkles across his face as Balgruuf. The elf’s eyes carry a surprising urgency to them, one that confounds and confuses Vilkas. He opens his mouth to speak but Athis cuts him off with a sudden, “Ria’s back.”

“Alright.” The Harbinger frowns. “Is that all?”

“She needs to talk to you.”

“…She’s not coming down here?” Vilkas quirks a brow. The Harbinger inhales deeply. He steps outside the room to his quarters and shuts it behind him. “Alright, where is she?”

“The Gildergreen.” Athis walks with him all the way to the front doors of Jorrvaskr. The dark elf splits from him there and goes to sit at the mead hall’s table, pouring himself a drink and making small chatter with Faendal and Filre. The latter looks especially tired from his trip.

Vilkas does not enjoy the cryptic nature of it all. He finds his anxiety peaks when things are not straight-forward. The man takes a moment to stall and soak in the sight of a blue sky over Whiterun. Clouds occasionally dot the sky, but it is perfectly fitting for the spring afternoon. He finds himself relaxing underneath it. His trek down the steps of Jorrvaskr and to the Winds District is peaceful, much like the peace he yearns for Whiterun to maintain. The entire city deserves it. The Companions deserve it. He deserves it.

He finds Ria at the new Gildergreen, just where Athis said she would be. The Imperial woman has her back to him when he walks up. He can see her hair has been cut short, into a messy fringe, but her eyes are welcoming and friendly when she turns around to greet him. “Harbinger.”

“Athis made it seem like an emergency.” Vilkas notes. He joins her at her side and looks up at the new Gildergreen tree. “Is it?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, Vilkas.” Ria crosses her arms.

The man frowns and stares at her.

She chuckles softly to herself. The woman shakes her head. “For the record, the hunt went well. Had a grand ol’ time making the giant run in circles. Killed it in the end, no civilian casualties. The farmers offered to let me keep the mammoth cheese we found at the giant camp, but I told them I’m intolerant of the stuff. Truthfully, it reeks to high heavens. Not a chance on Nirn I am lugging that stuff all the way out of Falkreath.”

“How far out did you go?” Vilkas frowns. The Nord notices the hesitation.

“—Pretty far, actually. Filre was a sweaty mess by the end of it. He did well, though, cutting off the giant’s toes. I got six of them for Arcadia, but we sold the rest to buy horse feed on the return trip.”

“How far is pretty far?” He focuses on those words specifically, not at all interested in hearing about the toes of giants.

“Uh,” Ria rubs the back of her head. She looks good in the suit of glass armor, though the woman refuses to don the helmet under the claim it is _ugly._ Vilkas never pushed her on the reason. He waits for her to go on. She frowns at him and clears her throat. “Shield-Brother, I think we approached the border of the Reach by the time it’s all said and done. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We ran into Forsworn.”

Vilkas feels color drain from his face. He exhales sharply. “The indigenous people of the Reach. I’ve heard about them. That’s far out, Ria.”

“Well, another thing,” Ria shifts her weight from one side to another. “We weren’t _at_ the border of the Reach. It was still Falkreath Hold territory. They were inside the province. I haven’t heard of that before, but I thought it was interesting.”

“So there’s reason to be cautious sending any Shield-Siblings across Falkreath.”

“—I’m not done.” The Circle member sounds slightly annoyed by the interruptions. She taps a foot impatiently for Vilkas to shush before the woman continues. “I didn’t want you to have a meltdown in front of the other Companions.”

 _I wouldn’t have a meltdown._ Vilkas wants to say, but he keeps quiet and nods at her to go on.

“There was a problem with a mammoth when we were taking out the giant. Filre almost got squashed. I thought,” Ria shuts her eyes at the memories. She frowns. “I thought I was going to be impaled trying to keep him intact. His footwork around larger opponents is real rusty, you know. But… Then came the Forsworn. There was a group of them. They took the creature down. One of them was wearing ebony armor. Enchanted stuff; it had this blue glow you’d expect of enchanted equipment. I mean—It isn’t so weird, right? A Forsworn using armor you’d expect of someone like the Dragonborn.”

 _Doesn’t surprise me._ The Harbinger thinks. _They should have a smithy. A lot of them. It’s a large group._

“…And, mind you, they didn’t say anything to us! To me or to Filre. We were busy, you know, being in awe at the fact we almost died. But we didn’t die. We were just… there. Watching them take this giant beast down like it was no problem. They worked as this… huge cooperative. This group of… Oh. I think eight people? There was at least one magic-user and a Briarheart warrior in there,” Ria turns to him and frowns. “And there was a person named Vinci.”

“She’s dead.” Vilkas coughs up the words before his emotions get the better of him. He can feel his stomach flip and twist painfully at the thought. The spike of anxiety is almost as bad as the _hope_ that comes with it. He shuts it down; he will not entertain the thought. “She’s dead, Ria. She died in Fort Dunstad six years ago. It was a massacre.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know for sure,” the Imperial woman sighs. “I don’t speak the Forsworn’s language. But I know the name was being hurled around a couple of times! I know what I heard, Vilkas. And I thought…”

“Thought what?” Vilkas interrupts her again. He can’t stop the cold tone behind his words. He regrets it immediately, as Ria growls at him.

The woman’s fists clench tightly. “I thought maybe it was worth mentioning! I thought maybe you’d like to know! Oh, is it so bad for me to think of you for once? Oblivion’s sake, Vilkas, I just—I thought it was weird. I thought the whole thing was strange. A grand series of coincidences or—Or _something._ ”

 _This is a grand series of coincidences. Perhaps, a dabbling of fates…_ It is Kodlak Whitemane’s voice that creeps into the man’s head. Vilkas clenches his eyes shut. He grits his teeth. “No. No. No. Not again. Not a third time. Not a third time, Ria. I can’t—”

He remembers what the late Harbinger told him once, about managing expectations and not trying to hold unto things that should be let go. He never found closure to those words, because in the end it seemed like Kodlak Whiteman was a man of his own contradictions, conflicts, and tribulations. That was back before Njada gave birth to a stillborn child, before Farkas and Rune got married, before Vinci was a skeleton among dozens in the ruins of Fort Dunstad. Vilkas hates how it all comes back so easily. He detests how easily part of him wants to revisit hope, to resurface through the grief, to wade through all the bull he lived through trying to move on.

He tried to move on.

 _I haven’t,_ Vilkas finds himself thinking, scornful of the confession that riddles certain pages of his journal. _I don’t think this is a grand series of coincidences, Kodlak. Neither did you. It’s… a dabbling of fates. I’m in the mess of it, aren’t I?_

It has been six years.

“Harbinger?” Ria frowns. Even when irritated, the woman can find sympathy for another in a second. She holds concern for him, though it no longer reflects the romantic feelings that were not requited.

“By the Divines, I—What do I do?” Vilkas cusses himself out. He holds his head in his hands. “What do I do with _myself_ , Ria?”

“Well. I wanted to talk to you about that.” Ria shrugs amicably. She meets his gaze and offers a serious look. “You’re the Harbinger, Vilkas. You have a reputation across all provinces in Skyrim now. I bet that includes the Forsworn. Maybe not the same way—But what if you try and contact them? And before you say anything,” the woman huffs and jabs a finger at him. “I know what you’re thinking! It’s dangerous! It might not even be worthwhile! Maybe just a huge waste of time trekking all around Falkreath Hold and the Reach trying to find the Forsworn in the first place! But… But you know what? At least—At least you’d know for sure.” Ria concludes with a sharp exhale.

Vilkas looks to the side. The man’s dark brown eyes dim. “I… I can’t abandon my duties as Harbinger. I need to speak with the rest of the Circle. I also have obligations to the Dragonborn—”

“You sure go out of your way not to call Rune by his name. Or, y’know, as brother-in-law.” Ria points out.

The man grimaces. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not now, Ria.”

“All I want you to realize is that he’ll probably be okay with it. If you want to go. I know I am,” the woman offers a smile as she speaks. “In fact, I’d like to go with you, if you don’t mind.”

The Harbinger stills. He watches her curiously. “Ria. Why do you want to go?”

“Because you need a Shield-Sibling to watch your back,” Ria replies without pause. She grins at him. “Besides, between you and I, what better team is out there? _And_ I am currently one of the few Companions who knows how to use a bow correctly. _And_ I know the area more than you. _And_ I’ll follow you if you say no, so you have little say in the matter. Besides that…” She trails off and shrugs. “I guess… If it turns out to be true… I’d like to get to know her. Outside of Companions. Outside of Silver Hand bullshit. I don’t think I treated her right in the past. I want to amend that.”

“That takes a lot to say.” Vilkas nods at her. “You’ve grown a lot, Ria.”

“So have you. Guess it’s been a long six years, huh?” Ria laughs. “Good to know we aren’t assholes incapable of change. Well, maybe Torvar. Still a drunk.”

“A better-mannered drunk,” The Harbinger says; he smiles faintly. “Still an improvement.”


	28. you may call her namira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas, ria, and filre travel to falkreath hold in pursuit of forsworn. the group finds not one but two surprises waiting for them in the hold's territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -pregnancy  
> -child loss  
> -miscarriage / stillbirth / stillborn  
> -implied past child abuse  
> -animal death 
> 
> thank you for reading (heart) please know i read every single comment and seeing new ones is always really encouraging whenever i get stuck on a chapter !!!! i hope everyone has enjoyed the story so far (confetti)

When he closes his eyes the third night of the trip, he has a dream. In this dream, the man is no Companion, no Harbinger, nothing at all but a simple man who goes to a home in Whiterun every evening. In this dream, he sees himself as a caretaker, a protector, and a man who would die for his family in a heartbeat. He sees himself not as the individual of the darkness, or the counselor who carries the world on his shoulders, but as a human: only a human. A man. A _father._

Njada Stonearm insists their child never had a name, because the infant was born missing half a head and not breathing. Perhaps that is the way the other Companion grieves, but to the man, to the man who wanted to be a father, he cannot view the two’s dead child that way. The infant meant the world to him; the child meant _more_ than the world itself, more than his life or Njada’s life or anyones life. Not even the Divines could surpass how much the man loved the child he never got to have. In his dreams, the sorrow and grief he carries continues to permeate his subconscious.

He was going to name the child _Lituas_ , for they would be tough as a lion and strong as the sun.

In the dream, Vilkas goes home every evening to a family. He sees tiny Lituas with a big, toothy grin when they eat their first solid meal. He helps clean after dinner. He changes his child’s clothes, puts Lituas to bed, and hums or sings until the baby sleeps for a time. It is peaceful. It is nice. It is everything he cannot have, because small Lituas died and Njada grieves in a way that makes him feel like she erases the child’s very existence.

It hurts when he wakes up. He feels the tears run down his cheeks. He cries silently until his eyes dry out, unable to take any more for a time. The feelings of the dream melt away and he finds himself on his back, in a bed roll, with a beautiful sight above him.

Skyrim’s spring nights have a sea of stars to light the world. Ironically, it is but one form of pain turning into another. In his dreams he mourns the child he did not get to have, the child who would have been almost _five_ that year, and in the waking world he opens his eyes and mourns a woman he wants to let go. Ria’s words were but a trigger forcing him to acknowledge the truth: for better or for worse, he has not finished grieving and letting go of Leilani Whitemane, of _Vinci._

 _And now…I’m here._ The Harbinger thinks to himself. His eyes watch the stars twinkle high above. _I’m really… here. I can’t believe it. What am I thinking? Trying to find a living corpse? How does any of this make sense?_

He does not have an answer. If he does, it is not one the man wants to acknowledge. He sifts through a pack beside his bedroll for a comb and makes to put his hair into a ponytail. He wraps it around and grabs two small hair pins to hold it in its place as a bun. Long hair is no good for combat; the ride south-west has been peaceful so far but he does not know if that will continue forever. Vilkas feels his body ache beneath his armor. Sleeping in it is never fun, but he cannot risk doffing it in the wilds. He sees Ria’s sleeping form thinks the same: in her bedroll, she is still dressed in her light fur armor. Her hair is a mess; it is almost impressive given the short length.

Filre Donovan greets the Harbinger with a big yawn. The Companion initially irritated him when he first joined Jorrvaskr’s residence six years ago, but the chattery whelp has come into his own. He nods gratefully at Vilkas and trades places. It is not long into Vilkas’s watch that the man hears Filre’s snores from his bedroll. He shakes his head. His deep brown eyes return to the sky.

“Like little bits of Aetherius peeking through.” The Harbinger breathes the words aloud. “Divines guide me. I need it. I need help.”

He holds his head in his hands. He needs to know he makes the right decision in pursuing the Forsworn, in going off a possibility that seems horrifically far from true. He needs to know he isn’t deteriorating to a point of needing help or intervention. He is not a werewolf anymore, he has been purified, he is cleansed, but he finds himself questioning if he borders on an obsession anyways. He wants hope to be real. He wants her to be alive. She was, once, when everything seemed unlikely and the world made impossible things happen, but that was the past and this is now. He begins to weep. He remembers the dozens of times he made promises not to cry over the dead woman, but he wants to badly to be wrong.

He wants to hope.

 _But that’s dangerous,_ he fights against his own wants. _It’s dangerous! It’s dangerous to have hope! I’ll get hurt again. I can’t… I can’t keep losing people. I can’t. After this… No matter how this turns out. I have to let go._

When dawn breaks and the two sleeping Companions begin to stir, Vilkas makes himself useful. He stokes the fire, pulls rations from a pack, and heats water so the three can have something warm to drink in the cool spring air. Granted, it isn’t anything flavorful, but Ria nods gratefully and Filre compliments his boiling skills. Vilkas grunts in response. The Harbinger and Companions pack up the small camp and put things away on the three’s horses.

Each Companion has their own, with only Filre’s being a mare. Vilkas’s steed is one of Rune’s newer horses, borrowed with the Dragonborn’s blessing. The steed is a creamy-brown colored horse named Magnus, a younger stallion with a temper if he thinks Vilkas doesn’t give him enough attention. The Harbinger takes care to feed Magnus treats before climbing on his back. Ria’s horse is another stallion, albeit one borrowed from Jarl Balgruuf. Her stallion is an older, dark-brown steed named Mud. Filre’s horse is a middle-aged mare with a gray pelt and black mane, nicknamed Miriam by the proud Redguard.

“I saved up money from hunts a _year_ to get her!” Filre explains repeatedly throughout the first, second, third, _and_ fourth day of the trip.

By the fifth, the trio is in the middle of Falkreath Hold’s territory. The region has a staggering variety of flora and fauna in the spring. Endless varieties of mountain flowers dot the ground, birds of all colors soar the sky, and three-different kinds of hares and two-variants of foxes can be spotted as the day goes on. On the sixth day, Ria proves herself with her bow; the Companion shoots an elk dead from a hundred meters. Though some of the animal must be left behind, the Companions resupply their rations with cooked elk flesh and have a hearty dinner. When the seventh day comes and goes unexpectedly, the group decides to make camp in a cave surrounded by thick brush and beehives. Bees buzz in the distance and offer a strange ambience while the trio put together a campfire closest to the cave entrance.

“Vilkas, you shouldn’t sleep in your armor two nights in a row. Oblivion, that’ll leave you sore,” Ria remarks when a fire is going and the three sit around it.

Vilkas grimaces. “You two plannin’ on it? Someone needs to be ready to fight a moment’s notice.”

“I don’t mind.” Filre raises his hand and waves it around. “I don’t!! It’ll be great—Mine is so light and comfy, I could just sleep like a baby all night long—I could, really, I swear by it—”

“I believe you.” The Harbinger yawns. He is more tired than he looks. His gaze shifts to Ria. “You?”

“Mine’s light armor. Not that… dwarven metal wolf set. Can’t imagine what that’s doing to your joints.” Ria grimaces.

It is convincing enough for Vilkas not to argue. He takes care doffing the armor and setting it next to his bedroll. He feels chilly in the clothes underneath, but once in his bedroll the man finds sleep calls to him immediately. He curls up under the thick fur blankets and tries not to think about the mess of thoughts weighing on his consciousness.

The sound of a behemoth roar pulls the man from the one night of dreamless sleep he has. Vilkas is thrust into the waking world with the cave shaking around him and the other Companions. He struggles to his feet and snaps his head to look around. He opens his mouth to say something, but another roar follows and the sound of great wings flapping cuts off whatever thoughts he intended to voice. The man yelps in surprise when a horse nearby begins screaming. Ria, already on her feet and still in her armor, leaps to her feet and notches an arrow into her bow. She creeps forward and gasps.

The woman shrieks back. “The horses!”

Vilkas does not think twice about his lack of armor. He pulls on his boots and runs out of the cave. Filre is ahead of him; the Companion sprints forward to where two horses attempt to rear away and buckle backward despite being tied to different tree stumps. Vilkas’s eyes widen in horror at where a third set of reins has been torn and ripped in two. “By Talos…”

The dragon bellows and roars for seconds overhead. The creature is dark against the sky, and when it shouts it speaks in a language none of the Companions understands. Vilkas barely gets his horse untied and pulled into the cave before flame licks the space it was just at. The man frantically tries to calm down the stallion, but the short-tempered steed attempts to rear back. He drops the reins and dives to the side in time to avoid being trampled by the horse as it breaks into a gallop and runs forward into the night. When he looks to the side, he sees Filre has had better luck with his mare. Miriam is an obedient horse and follows the Companion into the cave.

“The fucker ate my horse!” Ria shouts. She aims and releases an arrow, then pulls another from a quiver at her waist and raises the bow. “It wasn’t even _mine!”_

“Where is it?!” The Harbinger shouts. He runs to his armor and begins picking up pieces and donning the suit as quickly as he can. It might look ridiculous, but some armor is better than none. He hears great wings flapping somewhere in the night sky. The man growls loudly, “Is it coming back?”

“For seconds,” Ria curses loudly. The Companion’s eyes narrow. “What do we do, Harbinger? We don’t have the Dragonborn—Without Rune, we can’t _kill_ the thing! It’ll rise!”

“Aye,” Vilkas swears under his breath. The man scarcely has the time to throw on his chest piece and fumble with clasps before the dragon crashes to the ground at the cave’s entrance. The beady gaze of the great flying reptile stares into the cave at the trio’s camp. It dawns on the Harbinger just how bad a position the three are in when the dragon begins to suck in a breath. He clenches his eyes shut. “Divines help us!”

Ria barks at the dragon to get its attention and fires at its face. The arrow embeds itself into the dragon’s bloodied jaw. The creature yowls into the night and backs enough feet for Filre to climb on his mare and squeeze out the space in a sudden gallop. The dragon growls and rips the arrow out from its head, sending a spray of blood across the cave. Ria attempts to notch another one but the dragon snaps forward and grabs hold of her in its jaws; the woman screams in surprise and struggles to grab her short sword to no avail. Without thought for himself, Vilkas grabs the scabbard of his great sword from the ground and unsheathes it. He barely has time to spin on his heels and lift his sword when a soft _thoomp_ rings out.

An arrow he’s never seen before impales into a crack in the ground next to the dragon. The beast pauses and drops Ria, backing away and rearing up on hind quarters to look across the cliff face overshadowing the cave. Vilkas has zero hesitation running forward and dragging Ria to her feet. The Circle member hisses in pain; blood gushes out puncture marks along her body and spills between cracks in her armor. Vilkas shoves her behind him when the dragon turns its attention back on the two Companions. The dragon utters something he cannot understand; the language of dragon is nothing more than screeches and roars to his ears. He grips his great sword with both hands and tenses.

 _Death by a dragon will make for a fine bard’s tale._ The Companion thinks.

Another arrow embeds in the dragon’s back. The creature’s tail whips at Vilkas as it spins and looks for the attackers. Vilkas throws himself back and narrowly avoids tripping over Ria in the process. He stumbles but catches his balance; the man keeps his gaze sharp as he calls to Ria. “I’ll distract it! You run!”

“And leave a Shield-Brother behind?” The woman growls at him. Even bloodied, she has the strength to glare. “Stubborn man! Always tryna play hero!”

A sphere of great purple light blazes into existence outside the cave. The conjuration magic is so great that it floods the cave with its violent glow. The threads of space and time keeping Nirn safe and secure from the likes of Oblivion’s occupants begin to unfurl. Before Vilkas’s and Ria’s horrified stare, a being of clouds and lightning crackles forward. The storm atronach wastes no time sizing up the dragon and hurling lightning-bolt projectiles. The dragon howls and leaps into the air, temporarily occupied. Vilkas sees the opportunity and sheathes his sword. He initially helps support Ria hobble forward, but when her pain becomes too great to stand up, he picks her up and ignores any complaints.

Vilkas does not stop running until the two are a fair distance from the cave and their original camp. He sets Ria down in a company of large boulders and tall pine trees. The man frowns and looks for his pack but curses soon after. “—Oblivion, I left it in the cave.”

“Great,” Ria mumbles softly. Blood dribbles off her, soaking through her clothes beneath the armor.

“ _Yol toor shul!”_ An inferno blazes a hundred yards away, setting light to the forest amid the rumbling of thunder and crackling of electricity.

“It’s moving away—” Vilkas makes to say, but he cuts himself short as a second shape lurches overhead in the night air. The man’s eyes widen in horror as a second dragon bellows a much, _much_ louder roar.

There are two of them. In his time as Harbinger, he has only fought dragons directly alongside Rune. Without the Dragonborn, they cannot truly be killed, but it is worse than that. Vilkas doubts he and Ria, much less Filre or whomever shot the arrows, can defeat not one but _two_ dragons. Perhaps the first dragon could be readily distracted, but he finds the discouragement and terror freezes him in place as a dark shape lands in the open before the two Companions. His brown eyes rise to meet the terrible awe of a great beast, easily double the first in size and with murderous beady eyes locked on him. Though his muscle memory acts to unsheathe his sword and he stands in front of Ria, he knows it is useless. He sees the amusement flicker over the dragon’s face.

It, too, knows hapless prey when it sees one.

 _“Zu’u kipraan nu nau hin sil…”_ The second dragon breathes even as thunder and lightning break in the distance. The storm atronach seen before goes up in a plume of black smoke. A second sphere of purple conjuration magic flashes once in the distance before it fades into darkness. As the second dragon stalks forward to the Companions, Vilkas notes the shape of its head, the tail, and the wingspan.

 _Ancient._ He swallows. _Talos save us._

A wretched draconian scream pierces the air. The second dragon whips its head back enough for a horse to come galloping by. In a second, the second dragon is sucking in a breath and blasting a line of fire in a shout of, _“Yol!”_

Filre screeches and bats away flames with his shield; the Redguard Companion kicks Miriam into a gallop and circles around with the dragon hot on the two’s tail. The old mare is not one to complain; she breathes heavily under exertion but obeys even when Filre makes her turn around and face a cackling, hungry dragon. Filre holds up a shortsword and his shield and points the first at the creature. “B—Back off! You don’t know what you’re dealing with here!”

The dragon rises on its hind quarters. It roars back an answer, _“Fin joor mindol rok lost mulaag ko zu’u?”_

An arrow flies and pierces the dragon’s left-wing membrane. It howls in fury and slams its tail across the flat open ground, crushing small plants and sending rocks and dirt flying in the air. Pebbles rain around Vilkas and Ria. The Harbinger tries to shield Ria from them. Vilkas stares on in shock as another arrow follows the first. The arrows are the same kind he saw with the first dragon, a design he does not identify yet knows for a fact are not of common use. He stares as a shape approaches from the side: a silhouette of a tall, leering person with an awe-inspiring elk headdress tapered to a helm of sheer black ebony.

Filre takes it as opportunity to charge. The Companion howls a cry of war as Miriam gallops head-on at the ancient dragon. The dark shape hisses and swats horse and rider to the side effortlessly before it turns to the newcomer.

“You intrude on these lands,” a man’s voice comes behind the ebony helm. “You murder my kin—You expect glory and a meal, _dovah?_ ”

“You of the land cannot understand the sky,” the dragon barks at him. “ _Dir ahst maar!”_

The starlight reflects off ornate ebony armor. Vilkas can see beautiful designs of weapons pressed and engraved into the material’s surface.

“I am a Briarheart, _dovah. Zoor neh dir._ ” The Forsworn hisses and raises a bow, already notched with another arrow.

The dragon rears back. _“Fus… ro… dah!”_

The power of the dragon’s voice rockets forward and leaves a trail of caved-in ground as the thu’um forces the earth to give and sends debris and Forsworn alike flying backward. A terrible crack echoes when the man’s body hits the ground. He does not rise. The dragon howls in triumph. “Weak! Pathetic!”

“Says the flying _lizard!”_ The voice calls from a bluff, where a glow of purple magic emits around a woman’s palm. Under the starlight, she is a lone figure dressed in traditional fur garments of the Forsworn. Her hair is a playful mess of brown, her skin the color of a light brown earth, and her eyes hold a gleam to them that reeks of confidence and courage. Tattoos are visible even in the dark; when the woman holds out her palm and conjures a sphere of purple magic mid-air, the markings briefly glow with the use of her innate magicka.

A storm atronach comes crawling from the sphere to Oblivion, summoned into Nirn by the mage’s power. The Forsworn woman stares down the dragon with no hesitation, much like her Briarheart peer. The woman wags a finger at the dragon and begins summoning a wave of icy chunks that rise in the air and sharpen into spikes.

The dragon growls. “Landwalker… You meet the same fate as your kin.”

“Uh-huh.” The Forsworn grins. “Name’s _Kaie,_ sweetheart. And for your information,” the woman cracks her knuckles. “We have no intention of letting you walk away alive.”

“You and what army? _Hi dir!_ ” The dragon lurches forward. When the rain of ice spikes begins, the dragon snarls and snaps a sudden, _“Yol!”_ It prompts a wave of flames to soar and sublimate the icy spikes immediately. The dragon bats away thunderbolts with its tail and, when annoyed enough, it snaps a jaw back in the atronach’s direction and hisses. _“Fo krah diin!”_

The second shout is a call for winter. Ice blasts from the dragon’s great maw and wraps around the atronach. The creature is helplessly encased in snow and frost, compacted into little more than a giant chunk of ice, before it shatters into pieces and dispels back into Oblivion. The dragon snaps a tail around the mage. The Forsworn woman shows no fear even when lifted to the ancient dragon’s jaws. The mage keeps her head held high. Her eyes flicker across the ground and momentarily come across Vilkas; the two lock gazes before Vilkas spots a curiosity creep into the mage’s brown eyes. The woman grins at him and glances back at the dragon. “Aw, not going to eat me?”

“There is another— _Mey joor!_ Thinking you could distract the sky! _Laas!”_ The dragon throws the mage aside and spins on its heels.

The dragon leaps off the bluff and dives for the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt and dust that obscures what little visibility the stars offer. A dark shape rises from the earth. A second later, the dragon’s tail comes crashing through the dust and snaps into the individual’s side, forcing the person back and slamming the person against a tall crag. An inhumane screech guzzles out of the darkness. The ancient dragon howls and doubles down on the aggressive approach; it sucks in a deep breath and breathes out the words of fire.

 _“Yol! Toor! Shul!”_ the ancient dragon sends an inferno of searing-hot flames cascading unto the third individual. The dark mass, a third person in a set of ebony armor different to the Briarheart’s, screams in a wretched tone that betrays any humanity that could exist. The ebony armor glows red-hot from the shout’s power, but Vilkas does not see the armor crumple. The Harbinger stares at the sight of the ebony plates rising and standing upright. The armor glows and changes from red to white from the heat bathing it. Howls of undeath come pouring from the helm of the armor as the figure staggers forward, a hand against the flames to shield the helmet’s visor.

The dragon cuts off the shout and howls in indignation when the figure does not stop. It lurches forward and snaps its jaws at the ebony armor, sinking in through the breastplate and burying its teeth deep. It thrashes back and forth, but an ebony gauntlet rises. The individual rips off the second gauntlet and reveals a horrid sight: a mess of bones, entangled in disgusting, putrid sinew and tendons, doused in gurgling fats and layers of dead muscles and decay, all make up the ‘hand’ that lurches toward the dragon and sinks into its jaw.

For a moment, there is a sanctity among Skyrim’s wildlands. There is a peace only Nirn can provide, for Oblivion has not crossed with Mundus in two-hundred-years and the realm is safe from the most terrible abominations to ever walk the worlds. When the blast of darkness extends from the bones and ensnares the dragon in its grasp, Vilkas feels the safety depart. He feels the weight of premonitions to tragedy hang on his shoulders. He drops his greatsword and falls to his knees before the sight of an Ancient Darkness encasing the dragon and cocooning it into nothing. A terrible aroma fills his nostrils; he vaguely identifies it as the scent of rotting flesh.

When the darkness dissipates under a clouded sky, when the stars hide away and the world fearfully continues, he comes to his senses with a massive decaying skeleton sprawled out nearby.

“You are in a predicament,” the voice of the Forsworn mage snaps him to focus. Vilkas leaps to his feet and makes for his sword, only to hear the woman laugh. She gestures at the mess behind her as she walks to him and Ria’s unconscious form. “Your friend is dying. You want her to live? Yes? No?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” The Harbinger stumbles over sentences, thoughts, and words. He moves away when the mage steps by him and kneels at Ria’s side.

Vilkas’s stare does not go unnoticed. The woman—Kaie, he remembers hearing her say—chuckles. “Looks don’t do shit for magic. You are a Companion? Go find your third or—Something. Do something useful; do not touch the aspect!”

“Your—"

“Namira!” Kaie barks out the name.

 _Ancient Darkness. The Lady of Rot. They worshipped her, the monsters in masks. They worshipped her. They did all that to us… for her._ Vilkas feels nausea boil over in his stomach. He struggles not to heave when the ebony-clad figure turns to the trio. He watches the aspect don the second gauntlet and catches a sheen of blue enchantments spiraling across the surface of the material.

“A shame it burnt you to a crisp,” Kaie remarks dryly when the aspect stops at her side. “Maroisa will have words for you, Namira…”

Kaie stretches her palms out toward Ria. She does not touch the Companion, merely hovers her hands over the unconscious and bloodied woman’s body while golden light blossoms and begins to soak through the woman’s wounds. Before Vilkas’s eyes, Ria’s flesh begins to mend. Blood returns to the point of injuries and seeps where it once poured out. Color returns to the Companion’s face and Ria’s breathing calms.

“I got the third,” the voice comes from across the open stretch of rocks and rubble. The ebony-clad Briarheart grunts and groans as he hauls a disoriented but familiar face with him to the group. Vilkas holds his tongue when he sees Filre’s face; the man has a terrible head wound and Divines-knows-what-else beneath his armor. The Briarheart lays Filre flat across the ground, straightens upright, and turns to the Harbinger. “Thanks for the _help_.”

“Who are you people?” Vilkas dares to ask the question. He cannot think about fighting when his mind reels from the atrocity of decay a moment ago.

“Us?” The Briarheart hefts an ebony bow up and clips it to a hoister on his hip guards. He tilts his head to one side. The man grunts. “We are the Forsworn, children of the Reach! Who are _you_ , Companion?”

“Ohdon!” Kaie snaps. The mage offers a surprisingly courteous smile and looks up at Vilkas. The yellow glow of magic lights up her face and reveals mischief in her eyes. “He is Briarheart Ohdon, second-in-command of the Karthspire branch. I am Kaie, shaman and apprentice to Hagraven Maroisa, member of the Karthspire branch. We are Forsworn! Children of the Reach! If you cannot remember our names, we shan’t remember yours.”

“Respect is mutual, Kaie.” Vilkas clears his throat. He grabs his sword and stands upright. As he sheathes it, he suddenly feels incredibly sheepish. An entire battle played out in front of him, the Harbinger of the Companions, and he was akin to frozen as it happened around him. The man rubs the back of his head. “…Who is your… third?”

“Aspect!” Kaie calls.

The third individual, the mess of ebony armor—and rot, rot, _rot_ —straightens up and stares at Vilkas. He cannot see anything beyond the helmet’s visor, but he imagines empty eye sockets and mangles of brain matter.

“This is Karthspire’s branch honored guest,” Kaie brushes herself off. She pats Ria’s form and makes to rise. The woman stops at the aspect’s side and wraps an arm lazily around the ebony-clad undead’s shoulder. “The aspect of an et’Ada. The Ancient Darkness blesses us with her presence. You may call her Namira.”

 _“Et’Ada?”_ Vilkas cannot remember the term’s meaning.

 _“Ancient God._ It is the same word across many tongues, Companion, across the tongues of _dov,_ of _Daedric,_ and of our common speech,” Ohdon grunts. The man eyes Vilkas with a degree of caution. “ _Et’ada…_ Some say it means ‘old gods.’ _Your_ old gods. But—They are not old to us. They are as living, breathing, as the sky itself. In this manner… We live. We worship. We address them with a term derived of respect, for ancient does not mean forgotten but old entails new has taken or will eventually take over.”

“Speaking of _et’Ada,_ you were late on arrival. First dragon give you a run for its pelt?” Kaie asks Namira. She leaves the armored aspect alone after a moment and stoops to begin applying restoration magic to Filre in great swathes of golden light.

The aspect says nothing.

“I’d appreciate—Next time—You were quicker,” Kaie goes on. The Forsworn pauses briefly to point a finger at the aspect. “—Even if it involves _dragons_ —”

 _“Control,”_ Is the only word the aspect whispers, a tone hoarse and dry and dead as the day is to come.

“... Ah.” Kaie frowns and looks back at Filre. She clears her throat and returns to dumping restoration magic in him. 

On the ground, Ria begins to stir. It draws Vilkas’s attention away. The man drops to Ria’s side and kneels next to her, looking into her face with wide, concerned eyes. The Imperial’s eyes flickers open. The dark brown irises meet Vilkas with confusion. Ria looks beyond him at the Forsworn and the aspect. She opens her mouth to speak but shuts it when Vilkas sighs. “We… found the Forsworn.”

“—On the contrary, you found a _dragon_ and we found you finding a dragon. Twice.” Kaie remarks. She reels back from Filre when the man coughs and begins to sputter weakly.

“…Mir… Mir…” The Companion babbles in a circle. He holds a hand to his face and groans. “Horse… Okay?”

“Not in the slightest.” Ohdon remarks curtly.

Kaie pauses. The woman glances up at the Briarheart. “More compassion isn’t a bad thing.”

“—I’ve given ‘em plenty. Look at them. Two’s Nords. Companions, to boot.” Ohdon crosses his arms and grimaces. “You think politics don’t follow Companions, Kaie? Politics follows all here. You can’t escape it. There isn’t such a thing as apolitical.”

“Well, we certainly ain’t trying to be political in the sense you might be concerned about,” Ria grits her teeth and forces herself upright. Vilkas helps her stand; she begrudgingly accepts the help and sways but does not fall over.

“We aren’t involved in the civil war.” Vilkas clarifies. The Harbinger draws back and crosses his arms. “Neither Imperial nor Stormcloak.”

“But not apolitical. You might claim it, sure. But you aren’t. All’ve us take sides, Companion. Which side you on?” The Briarheart lifts his hands to his helmet and pulls it off, revealing a man in his forties with pale white skin and a gaze as deathly gray as a corpse. The warrior’s hair is a tussled mess of thinning, grayed blond that doesn’t pass his ears. Vilkas meets the man’s eyes and gives a nod of acknowledgement at the deadly warrior’s display. Ohdon huffs. “The question, Companion.”

“….horse…” Filre’s voice drifts in from the side.

Vilkas ignores him. He clears his throat and steps forward. “Where we stand? Politically?”

“What you want us for?” Kaie elaborates. “You haven’t turned tail an’ run yet, Companions. Haven’t attacked. The way you talk… You lot wanted to find us. Who else wants to find us? So… nonchalant, relaxed? Eh? Anyone else but a friend would want our heads on a pike. Silverblood family does. Bastards.”

“We’re not with them,” Ria tenses.

Vilkas holds up a hand to her. The Circle member looks at him and nods, albeit reluctant. The Harbinger turns to the Forsworn and looks to the side. “You’re correct. We are looking for the Forsworn.”

“You found ‘em,” Ohdon comments.

“You found us, last I heard.” The Harbinger remarks faintly. He looks to the side. “We…”

 _They have an aspect of Namira. They’re dangerous. That aspect… That’s dangerous. Inconceivable. What are they doing with the Daedric Prince?_ He shuts his eyes. _How am I supposed to trust them? How can I when they have that thing with them?_

“—Hesitant.” Kaie whistles sharply. He hears her rise to her feet. “Well, your Companion’s living again. We’ll be on our way. Highly recommend you three don’t stick around. The decay will keep the dragons skeletal for a time but eventually they’ll rise again since the three of us aren’t _dovahkiin._ ”

“You speak the language of the Greybeards,” Vilkas remarks quietly. He frowns and meets her gaze.

Kaie begins to laugh. “ _The Greybeards?_ Oh, those pish-posh monks up on the peak of the world? Nah, they speak the tongue of dragon! Don’t get it the other way around. Even _dov_ deserve respect. ‘Till they try to turn you into supper, shan’t get away with that…”

“We should have left them alone.” Ohdon states. The Briarheart turns but Kaie lurches to his side and grabs hold of his arm, clinging as if he might float away otherwise. She laughs more when the Briarheart grimaces at her display of affection. “Let go.”

Though the woman releases her grip on him, the Briarheart turns back to the group instead of walking away. Ria shifts her weight from one leg to another; the Companion feels the awkward tension roll off everyone in wave, save the disoriented Filre and the eerily quiet aspect that stands still-as-stone. Vilkas finds himself subconsciously inching away from the armored aspect; the Harbinger acknowledges his nerves and the tension in his posture around the person.

“Vinci,” the Harbinger blurts out the name with little thought beforehand. He frowns and looks at each Forsworn when the two freeze in place. Kaie and Ohdon glance at each other. Ohdon steps backward and throws his hands up. Kaie bites her lip. The two’s reactions make Vilkas squint and eye each individual suspiciously. “You know the name, then?”

“I told you—I heard it—” Ria states softly. She frowns. “With the mammoths. The giant.”

“Tch, thought you were a familiar face. Should’ve put it together.” Kaie rubs the back of her head. The woman’s brown eyes hold many emotions, but contemplation lingers and outshines the rest. The shaman inhales deeply. “This is… Not how I thought a hunt would go. Leave it to Namira to get us involved in this mess.”

The name of the aspect alone—if it is even a name, or just a title to reference the partial manifestation of the Ancient Darkness’s horrifying power unleashed on Nirn—makes Vilkas’s stomach churn. He feels queasy. He tastes bile at the back of his throat and struggles to maintain a façade of composure while his stomach brews and threatens to rampage up his throat.

“Ohdon, what are the chances these three are alone?” Kaie asks flatly.

The man frowns and reaches for his bow. “Not low enough.”

 _They’re going to kill us?_ Vilkas snaps and unsheathes his great sword in a moment, holding it across in front of him. He grits his teeth. “Don’t try it.”

Kaie ignores him. The shaman turns to the silent aspect and gestures from the Forsworn to the three Companions. “Say the word. I will incinerate them where they stand.”

“One of us lays down a lot,” Filre mumbles from the side.

“Namira.” Kaie presses with the name.

 _“Why…?”_ The aspect’s horrible voice spews out from behind the ebony helmet.

Vilkas feels his hands begin to shake. His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“What reason do you have to seek this information out, Companion?” Ohdon notches an arrow, having no qualms openly aiming it at the Harbinger.

The Harbinger stares at the visor of Namira’s ebony helmet. His dark brown eyes focus on it, tracing the curve of the material and noting the flicker of color dancing across its surface. He recalls seeing the armor withstand the inferno of an ancient dragon’s thu’um; the enchantments on the material are likely to aid the user against fire. _If that thing inside’s… Actually just… A talking undead… Rune’s mentioned finding those before. But those were dragon priests. This isn’t a dragon priest. Still, if this aspect’s the same, then… Then this thing would be weak to fire normally?_

 _“…don’t…”_ the voice comes out, mottled and coarse. _“…Appreciate… looks.”_

 _You did it first._ The Harbinger hears the voice in his head, crystal-clear as the sky is full of clouds overhead. For a moment he is lost in the memory of the day he and Ria first found Rune. That was the day the mess of fates and dabbling began to rear its horrible head: the group of Companions decided to intervene and rescue a Silver Hand from her own compound. The mess that followed devoured years of his life. When it was over, he had spent a year drinking and another six months wandering Skyrim’s wilds before coming to terms with the deaths of his child and Leilani Whitemane.

Except he hadn’t; it is the reason he stands with a group of Forsworn and an aspect of the very Daedric Prince responsible for so much suffering, both his and others. Vilkas feels a headache come on. He inhales slowly to calm himself before his emotions spiral into sudden catastrophe. _I’m not the same man I was before. I’ve grown. Six years is a long time. Right now…_

“I need to find information about a woman named Vinci. Ria here overheard the name passed in conversation and—”

“And what? You thought you could badger in and get away with askin’ whatever it is you Companions get on about?” Kaie’s accusation makes color drain from Vilkas’s face. The Forsworn woman’s gaze darkens. “Wanting to know isn’t a good reason to stir up shit. Oblivion, you’re asking for us to put ten arrows and an atronach in your skull.”

“Don’t think about it—” Ria barks. She growls at Vilkas when the Harbinger lowers his great sword. “They want us dead, _Vilkas!”_

“Briarheart Ohdon, Shaman Kaie,” Vilkas clears his throat. He sheathes his great sword and slowly lowers his arms to his side. He needs to stay calm. He needs to display confidence and composure. The Harbinger sees bits and pieces offered in every reaction, each word, and all the mish-mashes of thoughts and feelings thrown around since the two groups first crossed paths that night. Vilkas turns to the aspect of Namira and makes himself look the entity where he assumes eyes would be beyond the ebony helm. He frowns. “Aspect… Namira. I’m looking for a woman named Vinci. She…”

_Divines, what can I say to convince such a monster?_

“…She is a childhood friend of mine. One I…” Vilkas feels eyes on him. It is an uncomfortable feeling; he wants to make a tactical retreat and recalculate the odds and evens of the situation, but he resolves to stand firm in the face of the Forsworn and the aspect of Namira. The Harbinger inhales deeply and continue. “—I thought she died. Six years ago—She came back into my life, for a time. And I… I made promises to her I couldn’t keep. I broke them. I ain’t got the chance to apologize; she died before I saw her again, at Fort Dunstad in the Pale. I got to mourn a second time. And—I mourned. I mourned, children of the Reach. I mourned her ‘til I forgot how to weep with a bottle.”

Kaie exhales sharply. “Sorry to hear. That isn’t—"

“ _Let…. Him. Finish._ ” The aspect gurgles and belches each syllable. Kaie frowns but falls quiet.

Vilkas shuts his eyes. “I want to apologize to her. If she’s alive. I need to say sorry. I need… to know she’s okay. Happy. As long’s she is happy—With or without me—I can… I think I’ll find closure. Closure to this mess of fates and coincidences. Not knowing…”

The unknown is slowly draining his spirit and will to continue. He finds it hangs over him, taunting him with dozens of possibilities but all uncertainty. Vilkas cannot stand to live that way anymore. He chose to come out to Falkreath Hold with Ria for a reason: he needs to know, no matter what the answer is. He needs to know to move forward, even if it means accepting that Leilani Whitemane is dead. Even if it means accepting the possibility Leilani Whitemane lives and does not want him in her life. He _needs_ to know.

“The aspect does not decide if you live or die. Even as an aspect, there is a limit to the influence one has over an actual Forsworn,” Ohdon is the one to speak; the man’s voice is blunt and cold. The Briarheart does not think warmly of any of them. “…but Namira _is_ a guest in our branch of the Forsworn… And for that—Her words are considered where others fall short. I will take you to Vrechinn of Karthspire branch. She will decide what to do with you.”

The Harbinger’s eyes open and he stares at the warrior. His mouth falls open and hangs a moment before he shuts his mouth and nods at Ohdon.

The latter snorts at the man’s expression. “Don’t make me change my mind. We are not forgiving like you Nords.”

“We will not give you reason to regret this.” Vilkas swears by it. He frowns and glances at the aspect of Namira again. He has a million questions and thoughts when it comes to addressing and existing near such a terrible reminder of his past, near the Daedric Prince he loathes so deeply, but he keeps them to himself.

Or he tries to, but Kaie catches his hesitancy. “—Say it. No secrets, Companion.”

“Is that… _aspect_ … A person or undead?” The Harbinger questions softly. He sees Ria tense nearby and Filre look around dizzily. Ohdon pauses and Kaie laughs.

The latter strides up to the aspect of Namira and jabs the aspect’s ebony breastplate. “Why don’t you show them, Namira? They must be dying of curiosity. Glad they ain’t cats, mm?”

Though Namira does not reply, the aspect’s gauntlets rise to where the helm dips into a raised neck guard. Kaie steps back and rubs her hands together while the aspect pries off the ebony helmet. As the helmet comes off, Ria loses the contents of her stomach and keeps over to the side. Vilkas feels himself throw up in his mouth at the intense waft of decay and rot coming from the aspects body. Beyond the helmet is no living entity: he sees the horribly charred, sloughing mess of a skull with black eyes staring at him. Flies buzz around the decay only to fall dead a moment later and add to the mess involved. A moment later, Namira dons the ebony helmet and the aspect’s skull disappears behind the sheen of the enchanted armor.

Kaie pinches her nose and slaps Vilkas on the arm. “What does that look like to you, Companion? Because whatever you think,” she leans over to the Harbinger and snaps. “You’re in for a surprise when we get to Karthspire.”


	29. water you never drank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the forsworn city of karthspire is a sight to behold. vilkas, ria, and filre look for answers in its depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw:  
> -implications of past child abuse  
> -mentions of animal death
> 
> throwing my own headcanons unto the forsworn because i can  
> ger's are based on yurt's

In order to reach Karthspire, the trio of Companions ride with the Forsworn and the aspect of Namira. Their own horses are dead; they cannot reach it on foot easily. Though Ria rides with Kaie, determining who rides with the strange armored aspect is another question. The Harbinger remains uneasy around the individual, but it is clear from a moment’s glance that Filre is far, far more terrified of Namira than him. At least—he shows it. In comparison, Vilkas can keep his composure. For the sake of soothing Filre’s spirit, the Harbinger volunteers to ride on the aspect’s horse with the armored individual. It is a long first day of riding, with plenty of breaks and much chatter on Filre’s end.

The Harbinger finds the evenings with the Forsworn and Namira to be… interesting. Throughout the first two nights, neither of the Forsworn keep watch. Vilkas notes the duty relies solely on the aspect; not once does he catch wind or hear either Forsworn take over the responsibility. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does; the aspect is an undead monstrosity with no need for sleep.

 _Right?_ Vilkas shuts his eyes tight and tries to sleep.

He cannot. It is the third night of travel. Karthspire remains days away; navigating the holds of Falkreath and the Reach is not easy with only three horses but six people. The horses require more breaks, and certain stretches must be traversed on foot by walking them forward opposed to climbing up and over an obstacle. In his mind he envisions Karthspire already: a busy, bustling home of Forsworn with dozens of individuals happily working the day away. He imagines the sight of children playing games, women hunting, and men happily weaving and crafting in the background. He imagines the smell of veal roasting over a spit.

He imagines what it would be like to walk into Karthspire and see Leilani Whitemane there. To see little Lituas. To see only peace and joy on the two’s faces, something that escapes him at that moment. He knows one is dead and cannot return, but he finds himself holding out hope for the other. He wants it desperately.

He cannot sleep. Vilkas sits up in his bedroll and stretches. He shifts out of the blanket and throws on boots over dirty socks. The man grabs a blanket and makes to rise; he strides over to a small bonfire where the aspect of Namira sits and faces the flames. He does not say anything. To his surprise and delight, neither does the aspect. The night is almost peaceful. He is given a clear sky overhead and finds the trails of stars meshing across a dark canvas and soft clouds. The Harbinger relaxes under it. He forgets the aspect of Namira is even present as he utters under his breath, “—Like little bits of Aetherius poking through… I wish you were here to see it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the armored aspect of Namira stiffen and straighten upright. It is the first movement he witnesses since sitting down. Vilkas frowns and gives the aspect a glance before looking away. He nearly jumps out of his seat when the aspect rattles out a soft, horrifying voice, _“…Who?”_

 _Who?_ Vilkas can’t think of an answer. He stares at the ebony helm of the aspect. All he can see when he looks is the memory of the rotting skull behind the armor.

The aspect asks again. _“Who?”_

“…A woman named Vinci.” Vilkas releases the information. There is no use withholding it. Even if he cannot tolerate the aspect, he must not keep secrets from the Forsworn. He knows they can rat him out on a lie with ease. The Harbinger wraps his blanket around himself and inhales deeply. “Her other name is Leilani Whitemane.”

 _“…Ah.”_ The aspect’s voice sounds strained. The individual says no more.

 _Does it hurt to talk?_ The thought pops into the Harbinger’s head. He frowns at it. He has no reason to care, far from it, but the man finds himself hesitant on rising and returning to his bedroll. He looks at the flames. He does not despise the sight of fire, but he remembers what it did to him; he remembers how the monsters in masks branded the back of his right hand. He briefly considers asking the aspect about the bony hands beneath the gauntlets but holds back on it. _I don’t care._

He is a curious man. When his mind trails, he lets his gaze shift to the ebony armor. The Harbinger clears his throat. “—That custom?”

“… _made it._ ” Is the response.

“You made it?” Vilkas repeats the words. He sees the stiff nod. It baffles him how the aspect communicates, simple and restrained. _Why is that?_

He does not realize he speaks aloud until the dead voice whispers. _“Why… that?”_

Vilkas frowns. He averts his gaze to the side. Now that he’s asked once, he sees no harm asking again. “…Why do you talk like… Like—"

 _Why do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Vilkas?_ The voice sounds in his head. It sounds painfully alive, horribly real and full of grief. It reminds him of the night at the Skyforge. He had kissed Vinci a dozen times that night. More than a dozen. Three dozen, at least, and none of it had been enough to make up for lost time. None of it had mattered in the end. He traded her away like a bargaining chip. He almost lost her and Farkas; in the end it was her intervention that saved his brother’s life. Vilkas didn’t get to thank her. She was gone in a second; ripped from his life by whatever event took the lives of many at Fort Dunstad.

It baffles him why the thoughts come _now_. His eyes dim. “Nevermind.”

 _“…control.”_ The word is soft and pained. _“…darkness… Won’t… Let…”_

Vilkas stiffens at the words. He looks at the aspect of Namira. “…The darkness won’t let you? Or—”

 _You won’t let the darkness?_ The Harbinger questions in his head.

The aspect’s shoulders slump. _“No… No. Won’t let…”_

“—Are you,” the Harbinger hesitates. He does not know why he asks, but he feels a pull to finish the sentence. His gaze narrows. “Are you trying to keep Namira… out? Away? Keep the Ancient Darkness from controlling you?”

It mortifies him to see the aspect slowly nod. Ragged, heaving breaths escape faintly through cracks in the aspect’s helmet and visor. It sounds strenuous. It dawns on Vilkas how difficult talking might be for the aspect; it explains the simple answers and slight body language. He frowns. Part of him remains perplexed even as minutes pass by both in silence. The Harbinger cannot shake the thought he misses something about the picture. He cannot figure out what; he gives up and turns his attention to the flames.

“…That seems like a miserable existence,” he decides to say after a time. The man frowns. “You have… my sympathy.”

It is the last thing either the two say throughout the night. Neither are chatty. Vilkas feels bewildered by the entire thing, nothing short of baffled at himself, but to his chagrin and surprise, the following nights are not so awkward and stiff. He comes to covet the moments of peace and silence under Skyrim’s starry skies. He finds the putrid aroma of rot to be less repulsive and more tolerable. He does not fully move past his unease with the aspect, but he no longer wants to run and hide when he sees the armored individual.

According to the two Forsworn, it will be a minimum of five days until they arrive at Karthspire.

“And that’s if the conditions’re good.” Kaie remarks off-handedly before her and Ria’s mare trots ahead of the group.

That evening, Vilkas decides to do something different. He makes a point not to pass out in his bedroll right away. He sits by the far and watches the aspect for any sign of acknowledgement or awareness. For the first thirty minutes, the individual does not seem to react. Vilkas finally catches a whiff of movement at the hour mark, when the aspect tilts an ebony helmet to one side in a manner that makes him think the aspect stares at him. For once, he does not envision the rotting black gaze behind the visor. He tries not to think about the rot in general, opting to consider envisioning the aspect as a person in a fine armor suit.

“—Why do they put you on watch? Doesn’t it… exhaust you?” The man runs a hand through his mess of dark brown hair. It is down that evening; he cannot bother to put it up when he has yet to sleep.

The aspect does not answer.

Vilkas tries a different question. “Are you in pain?”

 _That_ gets the aspect’s attention. The individual straightens upright. A garbled hiss comes from the helmet, _“Always.”_

 _Always._ It feels weird to think about. He doesn’t like the thought of existing in a state of perpetual pain. Vilkas frowns and looks at the meager campfire between the two. “I’m sorry.”

_“—Why… bother?”_

“What?” Vilkas blinks.

_“…looking.”_

“For Vinci?” The words make his stomach gurgle uncomfortably. He shifts in his seat and sighs. The man holds his head in his hands. “I… I thought I told you it already—”

The aspect stands. Vilkas gawks and stares at the armored figure. The ebony armor looks nothing short of terrifying under the starlight and illuminated by the glow of red-hot flames. The individual’s gait is stiff and awkward as the person moves around the campfire and suddenly sits next to him. The Harbinger flinches and inches away. He frowns and gazes at the aspect. _Divines, help me. I don’t want to be killed by this thing._

 _“—What if—She—Wants you away?”_ The voice crawls from the ebony helm like a cockroach climbing a wall.

Vilkas sighs. “That—”

_“You… gone… forever?”_

The man frowns.

 _“…Keep you from… danger,”_ The whisper trails off. The aspect does not follow when he shifts to sit on a different log several feet away, palms outstretched to the flames. _“…danger.”_

“It is irrelevant to you.” Vilkas grimaces. He shakes his head. “She doesn’t—If she did—I’d accept it. I’d leave! Forever. Forever.” The man’s eyes dim at the thought. He could cut her free, and he would if it meant she would find happiness and peace. Vilkas feels pain just considering the possibility.

 _“…ah.”_ The aspect of Namira breathes in acknowledgement. The individual stills. _“Important…”_

“She is important,” the Harbinger states. He frowns. “She is to me.”

_“Companion?”_

“No. No, never.” The thought makes him sigh, but he does not shy from it. The man runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “…She did not want to be a Companion. I accepted that. She ain’t need be one of us for me to care about her… wellbeing. I want her safe. I want to protect her.”

 _“…one. Question.”_ The aspect lifts a hand and points at him. _“You—Hate me?”_

Vilkas stares.

 _Why does it matter to you?_ He yearns to scream out. He does not know how to answer the question. He decides to take the honest route, for better or for worse. The man sucks in a breath and looks to the side. “…You are a… a manifestation of a Prince’s power. A _Daedric Prince_ manifesting on Nirn… You are not even—Not even Azura. Nor Meridia. You are… Namira. Namira… The one who spurs cults to kidnap children and keep them in the darkness. What a wretched thing to be part of. I… cannot imagine willingly living as something so atrocious.”

His words keep the aspect silent.

Vilkas grits his teeth. Part of him feels angry now, compelled by memories of his childhood and the Oblivion he and Farkas lived through. “—You know—Because of _you_ , Namira—My brother and I—We lost so much of our youth. We lost our innocence. Your followers put us through Oblivion’s hell-fires. You did that to us. _Hate_ is not strong enough a word to describe how I feel toward you.”

He can hear the strange intake of breath. He does not care to imagine bloating, rotten lips breathing behind the ebony helmet.

The man shakes his head. “You—You’re Namira, aren’t you? That’s what they call you—Because you’re the aspect of Namira. You _are_ her. But you’re… Why aren’t you giving her control? What’s keeping you back? What’s worth the pain?”

_“Love.”_

It sounds so sincere that for a moment, the man’s heart skips a beat in his chest. He feels dizzy and confused, wild-eyed and stunned by such a confusing confession. The anger and resentment melts into a blur of complicated thoughts and feelings.

He can’t think of more questions to ask, so he does not ask any. The man finds himself rendered speechless the duration of the night. The next night, and the remainder of the trip, he cannot stand to say anything else to the aspect of Namira. It is only the final night before Karthspire that he makes himself crawl out of his cozy, warm bedroll and amble over to a weak fire the aspect scarcely maintains. Vilkas makes himself fetch sticks and add them to the fire before he sits on a log with a fur blanket wrapped around him.

Neither he nor the aspect say a word the first few hours of the evening. In fact, it isn’t until Vilkas finds his eyelids too heavy to keep open that he finally hears the aspect’s dead and dry voice rattle out a strange sentence.

 _“—would want… you… be… happy.”_ Namira utters.

“Who would?” The Harbinger stares.

 _“Vinci.”_ Hearing the name spoken by such a foul and terrible entity makes Vilkas feel nauseous. His stomach flits with angry, exasperated butterflies. His hands clench and unclench. He cannot put to words what runs through his head; he wants to scream and yell but also fall quiet as a mouse and listen for more.

The Harbinger stands. He eyes the aspect cautiously, wavering in resolve yet dying of curiosity all the same. The man manages a whisper, “How do you know this?”

 _“…Dunstad.”_ The aspect tells him in an equally low tone.

 _Fort Dustad. There were so many bodies…_ Vilkas shuts his eyes tightly. “How? _How_ do you know this? Were you there?”

 _“Yes,”_ Namira tells him. When Vilkas stares at the aspect, he finds the individual merely faces the flames and sits without the slightest movement. After a second, the aspect continues. _“…Knew… her. Killed… Silver Hand. Many.”_

“You knew— _What happened—_ How’d they die?” Vilkas scrunches up his brows and grits his teeth. He knows the answer. “The dragon. The decay. You—”

 _“Deserved it.”_ The aspect hisses softly.

“Why?”

 _“…killed… Sister.”_ Is the aspect’s final words for the evening, though Vilkas finds himself very-much awake. He spends most of the night shooting off unanswered questions. The man gets only a scrap of sleep; adrenaline and a desire to know the truth runs in his veins and forces his brain to think endlessly about theories and hypotheticals.

Karthspire comes into sight the next day, after the party passes dozens of different decorative displays of blood and guts smeared and impaled at varying angles.

It is noon when the party rides to the edge of a cliff, one of many flanking a steep drop into a canyon. A large body of water drifts lazily at the bottom, flowing east with occasional fish swimming to the surface to swallow flies whole. Between the two cliffs, stretching from one sheer face to another, is not a town nor a village but a _city_ swarming with Forsworn individuals and residents. Vilkas hears Filre squawk and Ria gasp. He cannot keep himself from staring in awe at the elaborately-built place that digs into the cliff faces. He reckons there must be at least several hundred Forsworn, if not exceeding a thousand citizens of the Karthspire branch _alone_.

Kaie laughs and she and Ohdon gesture at everyone to climb off their horses. The woman grins ear-to-ear at the reactions of all three Companions. “Never seen a place so beautiful, eh?”

“By the Gods,” Vilkas inhales deeply. “Your people built something incredible.”

“Oh, just wait till we get in there.” Kaie says with a wave of her hand.

The aspect of Namira is the last to dismount. The armored undead stands back with the horses while Ohdon and Kaie walk to the edge of the cliffs and whistle two different and very distinct notes in tandem with the other. A Forsworn watchman meets the two’s gazes and whistles a third note back. Kaie waves in greeting while sounds jump out of the bushes and thickets covering the cliffs. Vilkas spins on his heels but Kaie huffs at him. Ohdon snorts. “You think we would wait to kill you _now_ , Nords? No.”

Three Forsworn groups, each a band of two members in beautifully-made and form-fitting fur and scale armor, stride out of the foliage. They greet Kaie and Ohdon with kisses on the cheek, laughter, and jokes between one another. Two of the Forsworn gesture at the watchman and gesture at him. The watchman nods and pulls a lever connected to this tower. A pulley system activates and a bridge of enchanted wood slowly rises from below. Vilkas stares speechless at it. The technology rivals what he expects of the Dwemer, the since-extinct dwarven race. He remembers visiting one such ruin with Rune and a group of Companions years back, but to see something so recent baffles him.

“Wow,” the man finally says, full of admiration at the work and detail. “How long did this take?”

“Save the questions for Vrechinn! C’mon.” Kaie calls, the woman already striding across the bridge with other Forsworn on her tail.

Ria and Filre wait until Vilkas begins after her. Ria jogs to catch up to the Harbinger’s side. She glances at him and frowns. “This is…”

“Amazing.” Vilkas utters sincerely.

“They’re nothing like the stories. Nothing I coulda thought from… From meeting at a mammoth weeks ago.” Ria runs a hand through her short hair. She sucks in a breath. “This is a _city._ This might be larger than Whiterun—”

“Not by much,” Filre chimes in from behind the two. The man frowns. “Whiterun’s got a lot more people than it looks.”

“It does.” Vilkas nods. He faces forward and exhales. _But this place might, too._

Up ahead, across the tallest level of the city, Vilkas sees just how magnificent Karthspire up-close: the city is a multi-level settlement with intricate, pulley-based elevators to rise and lower between different levels, allowing not only produce and goods to pass with ease but also individuals who struggle to walk or require assistance. When he peeks past a short railing and over the edge, he gawks at the several-hundred-foot drop. Several children further up the platform giggle and point at the man before turning tail and running into a crowd of Forsworn busy with different tasks.

Some groups gather to fillet, slice, and hang fish to dry in Skyrim’s afternoon sun. Some people keep around a raised fire pit and work away with beautiful black ore, smelting it into ebony metal and dunking it periodically in great cauldrons of water lifted straight from the river far below. Yet more people simply enjoy the crisp air and lounge around benches and chairs carved from wood. Most of the Forsworn lounge in elegant, elaborate-patterned clothing. Vilkas identifies materials made of mammoth hair, bear furs, and down of different birds. He does not know where the animals are kept, or if any are kept in favor of foraging and trading with other Forsworn branches across Skyrim, but he doesn’t doubt them capable of building a suspended animal farm. _Not anymore._

Across the platform, the supports linking each platform to the one below is visible. Vilkas imagines the weight distributes evenly across the entire city to keep it stable in tandem with the supports drilled into the cliffsides. He walks over to Kaie; the woman greets him and his Companions with a nod. “So! A word of advice: don’t go running rampant in places you don’t understand. You’ll get lost here. This is common area; relax all you want. Second floor… The stores. I’m not talking _shops._ I’m talking where we store important things. Like _food._ You take what you need. You pick up after yourself. Hygiene’s imperative to keep out disease.”

Filre nods fervently at each word. Ria and Vilkas glance at each other before nodding in unison. Kaie claps her hands and smiles.

“Great!” the woman exclaims. She looks around the group. “We have residential areas on the third level. You keep off that. Don’t fucking think about stepping on the slightest splinter there; you three are going to the _bottom_ floor to meet Vrechinn. She’ll have quarters for you to relax in there.”

Kaie whistles and another man dressed in a quilt of furs and decadent stitching pulls a lever. Ropes strain but a large wooden platform slowly climbs into view. Kaie wastes no time stepping on it and gesturing for the three Companions to join her. When the platform begins to lower, Vilkas gets a glimpse of the different levels of the city. He sees color-coded wings of the stores, each decisively split up and decorated with symbols he presumes to be of the Forsworn’s native tongue. He watches the third floor of dozens of families rise into and out of view as the lift passes the floor. The fourth floor is one Kaie did not mention; at first glance it appears to be one akin an armory and training grounds. Vilkas spots twenty warriors sparring with wooden weapons against each other while three other Forsworn busy themselves sharpening beautiful ebony blades or crafting any number of the intricate arrows he saw back at the cave with the dragon.

The final level of the city, the last of the platforms stretched across the water below, is lit by small torches carefully positioned against indentations stained by smoke. The carved chunks of wood give the smoke an outlet to flow outside; a faint sheen of blue indicates the wood’s enchanted status. A set of tent-like buildings, no taller than fifteen-feet and made of wood and thick furs, greets his eyes. Vilkas counts one larger structure with dozens of potted, herbal plants toward the back end of the platform. Tiny huts line the upper-leftmost corner, where Kaie gestures amicably at half-naked adults lounging in chairs, washing their hair with river water, or diving into the slow-moving water itself for a swim. “If you want a bath, look there. Most of us don’t care ‘bout nudity like you Nords do. But if you really want, we can put up a curtain for you folks. Then—"

As the woman gestures to the right half of the massive platform, Vilkas takes in a row of the small tent-like structures. Occasionally, he sees a group of children playing what looks like hide-and-seek between the “tents.”

“They’re easier to take down in a hurry. If the Hagravens sense a flood coming, we tear ‘em down and move them to the common level.” Kaie huffs in pride. “Easier to move than big, bulky rock structures, eh?”

“Easier to burn down?” Ria proposes. The woman squints at Kaie. “What if a dragon attacks? You guys got a plan for that?”

“We do, actually,” Kaie holds a hand to her mouth, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “We’re _all_ trained spellcasters, sweetheart. Kids might only know how to do a few magic tricks, but when you got hundreds of ‘em? You don’t need _much_ to make it work. It’s how we’ve survived for hundreds of years. We have always prevailed, even in the face of dragons and tyranny. You didn’t think we all popped up outta the blue _just_ because of what’s happened in Markarth—Do you?”

Vilkas frowns. The man shakes his head. “No. Tales of the Forsworn prevail Markarth.”

“Good. Otherwise, I might cut off ya toes just to clear the air. Now, those lovely things are not quite… tents. In my language, we call them _ger,_ or home. They are our home for the groups of Forsworn who move nomadically opposed to settling in one of the branches.”

 _Ger. Home._ Vilkas echoes the thought. “Branches the different groups?”

“The _branches_ are the main encampments. Or, in this case, the main city, mm?” Kaie tilts her head to one side. She sways back-and-forth with glee. “The Forsworn as a whole depict ourselves as a tree. We are one, for we are all the Reach, we are all each other, we are all the flesh and blood of our kind. We share our sins, we mourn our losses, and we grow and thrive together. Branches are merely larger groups of Forsworn.”

“Are there others?” Ria’s voice hints at a genuine curiosity.

Kaie hums thoughtfully. “Other parts of our tree? Of course! The children are the fruit! Our future! The _seeds_ of which the next tree grows, the new branches begin! And our Hagravens… The _roots_ of all Forsworn.”

Vilkas decides not to mention the Hagraven witches the Circle members and himself killed as part of the process to purify himself and Farkas from lycanthropy.

“A tree needs water, yes?” Kaie leads the group across the platform, around groups of people chatting away or looking on curiously. Occasionally she stops to greet someone with a kiss or joyous laughter, but she primarily sticks to calling back to the Companions. “—The Hagravens connect us to our water! To the _et’Ada!_ To the gods _you_ lot call _old,_ gone, forgotten! To our Divines, to the spirits _you_ dub _Daedra!_ The Hagravens connect us to our water. They are part of our tree, even if most the world views them as unnatural, inhumane monstrosities. They are _not_.”

“How do some of you know dragon talk?” Filre pipes up and hurries his pace, trying to bystep Ria and move closer to the Forsworn shaman. Ria doesn’t let him get by her. The man frowns and looks to the side. “Isn’t that—An ancient language?”

“It is passed down orally, speaker-to-speaker. Our ancestors who fought in the merethic era saw fit to continue the traditions until now. It is imperative a warrior has ways to send messages that are not intercepted by an enemy, mm?” Kaie puts a hand on her hip. She stops next to the large structure in the back. The woman pauses. “This is… a big _ger_. But it is still a _ger._ A home. Vrechinn is inside. She does not take kindly to snip-snap remarks, Companion. Not in her home.”

“Wait—The Briarheart—The aspect—Namira. Where are they?” Vilkas looks across the platform. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t recall seeing the two on the lift.

“Ohdon took Namira to Maroisa.” At the Harbinger’s blank stare, Kaie grimaces and rubs her forehead. “The _Briarheart_ took _the aspect_ to our _Hagraven._ ”

“I understand that.” Vilkas grits his teeth. He does not know if he likes the woman’s attitude. It is hard to judge when he remains on edge from past talk of her and the Briarheart wanting to kill the trio. The Harbinger inhales deeply and calms. “Why is that?”

“I told you—You’d be in for a surprise when we got to Karthspire. The surprise takes a bit.” Kaie holds open a flap of fur and gestures at the group to go in. “C’mon, don’t keep my mom waiting!”

“Your—” Ria cusses under her breath. Filre and Vilkas hold their tongues as all three enter the _ger_ and stop at the open nature of its interior.

There is only one room. A long-lasting—if not permanent, judging by the use of magic seen throughout the city—ball of light from a _Magelight_ spell hovers in each corner of the room. A low-lying table stretches the length of the _ger_ , while a series of grandiose cushions made from stuffed furs and pelts serve as seats for the table. Directly opposite the entrance of the _ger_ is a person in her late fifties or early sixties; Vilkas cannot tell. The person has Kaie’s brown skin but far curlier, far lengthier hair in a shade dark as umber. The person’s hair splays down one side of her face and conceals an eye, while the rest trails Vrechinn’s back.

At least, Vilkas assumes the person is Vrechinn. He notes the shimmer of magical enchants applied to beautiful, carefully-maintained pelts sewn and stitched to form a long-trained dress with grand bell-sleeves and a trim that puts any of Solitude’s apparel merchants to shame. Circular earrings made of woven threads dyed in vibrant earthy hues cling to piercings along the person’s ears.

Vrechinn’s face bears wrinkles. The person does not cover her face in make-up to hide the signs of age. It appears she embraces it; she has dark power emphasizing the streaks across her skin. Her eyes are dark and wise when the three enter the home. “You are not Kara.”

“Kara?” Vilkas raises both brows. The man sucks in a breath. “We don’t know who that is.”

“You wouldn’t. She won’t arrive here for a time; Maroisa’s visions hinted her coming would take place after an unspeakable tragedy. But what,” the person’s voice dips into a low tone. “ _is_ the tragedy… And to whom it is unspeakable… That is another story of another day. Welcome to Karthspire, Companions. Harbinger.”

“You knew we were coming?” Ria speaks for the bewildered Harbinger, seeing Vilkas’s hesitancy.

“—Maroisa is the eyes of our roots.” Is all Vrechinn offers. The person sits up and rises to her feet. She takes a bow. “I am Vrechinn, mother of Kaie. There are three things you must know about me, for you are strangers invading our lands.”

“Listen up.” Kaie walks around the table and stands next to her mother. She crosses her arms and tilts her head to one side. “You think _I’m_ on your ass about this? My mother’s far worse.”

Vilkas swallows. “We’re listening… Uh…”

“Vrechinn. I am Vrechinn.” The person repeats and jabs a finger his direction. “I understand you Nords are the kind to hold formalities headstrong, but among the Foresworn your titles are meaningless unless the water or roots are involved. We exist in relation to _them_ , and to the King in Rags. With that in mind… Do not address me as queen _._ I am not. I am Kaie’s mother. I am Vrechinn. I am my own. Understand?” The person barks each word, never once looking away from the Harbinger and his Companions.

When Vilkas nods, Vrechinn goes on.

“Second—Do not call me _Lady._ Many of us are those who do not identify with the terms used by you Nords and your Empire. I am Vrechinn. Sometimes—I am Kaie’s mother. But that does not mean I am what you consider a lady; it is not the same across both cultures,” Vrechinn says. “Third—If you call any of us _savage_ we will gut you where you stand.”

“We’ll abide by those.” The Harbinger swears by it. “Thank you for… Letting us stay here.”

“We have not given you a place to stay _yet_ , Companions.” Kaie snorts. “We are debating the value of your lives.”

“Kaie. I ask for privacy,” Vrechinn states calmly. Her daughter slumps and gives Vrechinn a look before the shaman begrudgingly leaves the _ger_. Vrechinn crosses her arms in a manner all-too-similar to her daughter and stares Vilkas down. “My daughter is not wrong. I am here to assuage the value of life between you three. We do not trust easily, Companions. We do not trust Nords easily when they give us no reason to trust. In our eyes, your titles are meaningless. Companions, Harbinger, or _Nord_. Give me a different reason to care whether you live or die.”

“Vinci,” Vilkas states the name quickly. He exhales sharply at the gleam that flickers across Vrechinn’s dark eyes. “—I’m looking for a woman named Vinci. She goes by—”

“I see,” Vrechinn cuts him off and turns to the side. The person shuts her eyes. “…Maroisa did not mention this. It escaped her eyes.”

“Sorry to hear?” Ria offers meekly. The woman flinches when Vrechinn’s gaze falls on her. She throws her hands up. “Sorry—Sorry!”

“What are you three in relation to this woman?” Vrechinn inquires. Her eyes are sharp; Vilkas does not miss how she swiftly moves her line of sight from one Companion to the next at the slightest hint of movement or motion.

He looks to the side on purpose to make sure Vrechinn does not miss his words. He hopes where his words fail, he can at least convey in emotions, in _feelings_ , everything he wants to get across. The man sucks in a breath and speaks for all three Companions, “She’s a childhood friend of mine, Vrechinn. Someone who came into my life six years ago and left just as quickly. I never got to tell her everything I wanted to say.”

“Most don’t get that chance. Closure is a myth, Harbinger,” the person replies without missing a beat. Vrechinn tilts her head to one side. “Do you seek a myth?”

“No. No. If I did—I wouldn’t be here.” Vilkas shuts his eyes. “If she was a myth, I could accept that. I don’t believe she is a myth. Not yet. Not yet, by the Gods. I think she could still be alive.”

“You bet your life on that?” Vrechinn muses aloud. The person sighs deeply.

Vilkas feels heat crawl into his face. He grits his teeth. “I suppose I do.”

“A foolish bet. Nords do foolish things; I am wrong to assume it would not be for such asinine purposes…” Vrechinn runs a hand through her hair. She squints at the trio. “You may lose this bet. How do your Companions feel about this, Harbinger?”

“If they doubt me, they would not be here.” Vilkas answers.

“You two,” the person gestures at Filre and Ria with one wave of her hand. “Do you doubt him?”

“No.” Ria states solemnly.

“He hasn’t led us wrong yet.” Filre answers honestly.

Vrechinn slowly nods. “Loyalty instills trust in your ranks.”

“—I’ve given them reason to trust. The Forsworn may not care for titles or formalities beyond a few specific ones—But I’ve worked hard across the Holds to demonstrate I am worthy of trust to my Companions, Vrechinn.” Vilkas narrows his gaze on the person. He bites his lip. _Is that enough?_

“You two—Out.” Vrechinn barks at the two Companions. She gestures at Vilkas. “You will stay. Have a seat.”

“I’ll be fine,” Vilkas assures both Companions. Ria gives him a look nonetheless on her way out of the ger. Filre has no qualms dashing out of the structure. When left alone, the Harbinger finally takes a seat among the soft pelt-lined cushions scattered across the ger’s floor. He looks directly at Vrechinn and eyes her for any hint to what she thinks. The person is good at maintaining either a look of utter annoyance or true neutrality, and at that moment it is the latter.

Vrechinn is the first to break the two’s silence. The person folds her dress under her as she sits. “—How did you hear of Vinci among the Forsworn branches, Harbinger?”

“—Ria. One of my Companions, the woman—She told me she overheard the name being used in conversation weeks back when she and Filre bumped into a group of Forsworn fighters in a hunt.” Vilkas says.

The person pauses and glances up and down Vilkas’s armor. “Dwemer metal?”

“Our blacksmith no longer smiths exclusively in Steel,” the Harbinger nods. “Nor do yours in—”

“We’ve always been known for using interesting materials. Whatever is in reach, you could say,” Vrechinn snorts at her own words. She shuts her eyes and twirls a strand of hair between two fingers while thinking.

Vilkas remains quiet out of respect for what she has to say.

Vrechinn finally sits upright and lowers her hands to her sides. “How did you meet your childhood friend, Harbinger?”

“My brother and I were kidnapped by followers of Namira. A cult. They took us to the darkness; we became and met other children of the darkness there,” Vilkas grits his teeth at the memories. He strains not to indulge too much detail; though he speaks honestly, he knows of old rumors about liars making up too many details to cover up their fibs. He does not want Vrechinn to doubt him more than she already does. The man bites his cheek. He calms himself and continues. “There was another set of twins in the darkness. Leilani Whitemane was one of them. Her cage was directly next to ours. After the cult branded us—She began to…”

His eyes water. He grits his teeth and forces the emotions back down. The man wipes his eyes. _Now is not the time. Now is not the time!_

“She sang the pain away for my brother. She sang it away for many of the kids. We were in the darkness for… years,” the man’s shoulders slump. The Harbinger begins to feel like a child again: weak and useless, small and tiny. He reminds himself he is _not._ He is a grown man of forty; he is someone who can cut a giant in half in one swing of his great sword. Vilkas forces courage down his throat and chokes out, “She became close to us. We became close to her. _I_ became close to her. She was closest thing to a friend in that pit of Oblivion.”

“What happened to her, Harbinger?” Vrechinn speaks calmly. If she feels sympathy, she does not show it.

Vilkas shuts his eyes. “I thought she died. But… Skip forward a couple years. My brother and I ran into her at an inn. Skip forward ten more years, Vrechinn. I carried her out of a Silver Hand commune. Four months later, she assisted in the murder of late Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane and disappeared. I didn’t know if she was dead or not. I thought… I didn’t believe she was dead. Not after living so many times. Not after that. She’s cheated death before. She could do it again. She can do it again.”

“Fort Dunstad,” the person’s knowledge of the location makes chills crawl up the Harbinger’s back. He stares at Vrechinn while the latter slowly drags out each word. “The… bodies. What happened to them?”

“…Your aspect told me she killed them.” Vilkas says.

Vrechinn’s brown eyes widen. Then the gaze narrows on him. “Ah. She isn’t wrong.”

“She was there?! That—That thing—”

“Namira. The aspect of Namira.” Vrechinn corrects him.

He grits his teeth. “The aspect of Namira. She was there?”

“She was. I believe she was; you may believe what you want.” Vrechinn shrugs amicably.

Vilkas eyes her with caution. “What does that mean?”

“You are not prepared for that information, Vilkas of the Companions. Vilkas the Harbinger,” Vrechinn rises to her feet and clasps her hands at her waist. The person’s gaze is cold and unwavering as it bears holes in his side. “You are a fool to invest so much in a person who might be dead. But I understand why. Many of Skyrim’s own are romantics, swearing by fables of happy endings to distract one another from miserable realities. I did foolish things when I loved our King.”

The man flinches backward. He feels his face flush and yearns desperately for a helmet that covers his entire head, his face, everything that so easily gives away the part of him that is meek, soft, and longing. “I don’t—”

“You may not love a person, yet you act in affection. Once more, we assign triviality to a term like _love_ when all affection could be assigned the intimacy of the emotion. Is saying a person cares for another not the same as declaring you ‘love’ someone to the point of wanting them to be well?” Vrechinn shakes her head. “I expect honesty, Harbinger.”

Vilkas bites his cheek. He cannot think of words to say. He looks to the side and clenches his eyes shut.

Vrechinn continues. “But I see honesty. I see it in your soul. Just as Maroisa saw the marks of madness and indulgence on the body of Kara Dragonborn. You have your own marks, but not of a god. Of… mortality. Affections. You’d be wise to mind them.”

“With _respect,_ ” the man forces the words out. He feels so blaringly out of place and put on the spot that his mind begins to swarm. “I’ve struggled enough with _this_ and _feelings_ for… Years. Vrechinn. I’m not keen to open up to a stranger.”

“—Yet you’re keen enough to go to her city, in the wilderness, over rumors heard in discussion? If you had bad luck, you would meet an ill fate. I would let my daughter burn you to a crisp. She is one of the strongest mages in the branch.” Vrechinn talks calmly. She does not hesitate to meet his gaze. “You haven’t snapped yet. I heard tales of you being a hothead in your youth, Harbinger.”

“I grew out of it. Had to,” Vilkas inhales deeply. “I had to.”

“You… are choosing to endeavor a dangerous path, then? A path of things you do not understand in the slightest? Of water you never drank?” Vrechinn presses with the questions.

The Harbinger slowly nods. Stray strands of hair, escaped from his low ponytail, cradle his cheeks. He stares back at Vrechinn. “I’ll go down the path. I need to know if she’s alive. If she doesn’t want me here—Or around—I’ll accept it; I will go. I just… I need to know the truth.”

“I do not trust you, Harbinger.” Vrechinn watches him stand up. She crosses her arms. “I can tell you are desperate. If you are intend to follow through, you must prove you are an ally of the Forsworn.”

Vilkas blanks on the words. “—The Companions are not political—”

“But are you political, Vilkas? Are you _desperate?_ ” Vrechinn asks.

He has no answer, at least none he wishes to admit aloud.

Vrechinn clears her throat. “The King in Rags—King Madanach—He is the Forsworn’s true leader. He is the one we put our faith in with the Hagravens and their blessings. He is imprisoned in Markarth, a city that flows rich in silver and blood. If you help our King escape from his chains, I will tell you everything we know about Vinci.”

 _Oblivion. She’s… Really going to use her against me like this?_ Vilkas feels ill at the thought, his morals of a Companion pitted against his deep-seeded need to know. He grits his teeth. “I want one thing, before then. One answer.”

“I’ll consider answering, Harbinger.” Vrechinn’s calm expression makes him nauseous.

“Is Vinci alive?” The Harbinger asks.

The question makes the person pause. Vrechinn drums her finger over her bottom lip a long moment before she sighs and shrugs. “The answer to that is yes and no, Harbinger.”

“Yes and no?”

A horrible racket of ungodly screams interrupts the two’s meeting. Vilkas instinctively goes for his great sword but halts when Vrechinn holds up a hand. Though neither can stop Ria from barging into the tent, Vrechinn quickly offers an explanation before the Companion gets any ideas. “—Maroisa and the other roots have concluded their ceremony with the aspect. It is expected to hear these noises. You may panic but do not act impulsively over misinterpretations.”

“The ceremony with the—What are you doing to that thing?” Ria barks at Vrechinn.

Kaie pulls open the flap to the ger and huffs at the lot, namely Ria. The two women glare at one another while Kaie explains _curtly_. “—It is by her request, Companion.”

“Ria. My name is Ria.” Ria growls.

“Ria, please.” Vilkas pleads with the Companion.

Ria utters faint curses under her breath. Kaie snorts and shakes her head. She turns her attention to Vilkas and offers a mischief-filled smile. “Well, since it looks like you’re done chatting up my mother. Why don’t we take a walk? I told you there’d be a surprise in Karthspire. Shame I had to miss seeing it, but looking at the results never hurts.” She gestures for the Companions to follow along as she begins to walk the opposite direction.

Vilkas does not hesitate to run after her, both perplexed, confused, and concerned for all parties involved. The man stares at the shaman incredulously as he walks side-by-side. “The results?”

“The Hagravens… Our roots. They can call upon the et’Ada and use old magics, Harbinger. And when they do—They do amazing things. Tell me,” Kaie gives a grin to the man. “Have you ever seen an undead return to life?”


	30. just as sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kaie's surprise is not nearly so fun as it is a reality check that the harbinger and companions are in way over their heads at karthspire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW mentions / implications of past child abuse
> 
> background music for this chapter:  
> "savior" by rise against  
> thank u for reading

The Hagravens of Karthspire have their own alcove carved further in among the cliff faces, accompanied with a winding set of painstakingly-carved stairs. The stairs extend to a wooden walkway attached to Karthspire’s lowest level. When Kaie shows him the way, Vilkas hesitates. The woman huffs and puffs at him until the Harbinger obliges to walk first. Kaie follows after him, then Ria, and Filre walks last of the group.

“It isn’t a long walk, promise,” Kaie jokes half-heartedly as the group climb the stairs with Karthspire behind them, slowly growing more-and-more distant.

Vilkas grunts. “What should we be expecting?”

“Well, for one, Namira is gonna be pissed, probably. It’s a whole ordeal and a half. Maroisa and the roots build a new body using the magic of our ancient gods. Imagine what it’s like to have a foot fall asleep, and then try to stand on it, and then have that be a thousand times worse and effect your entire body! Bam! Almost like that.” Kaie chats away with a delightful smile, proud as a clam in a shell to share all she knows on the subject.

Vilkas can feel hear Ria’s groan a mile away. “How do you know so much stuff?”

“—I’m training to become one in my fortieth year,” the woman replies without pause. Kaie shoves Vilkas forward when the man takes too long to climb a tall portion of the stairs. Vilkas grits his teeth but says nothing and continues the hike up the rocky stairs. Kaie runs a hand through her hair and continues on, “I’ve been practicing for the last seven years. I decided when I was twenty-five to pursue this path and become a root. It is the highest honor a Forsworn can obtain in our culture; the roots connect us to—”

“Your gods,” Vilkas comments.

“Glad you’ve been listening!” Kaie rubs her hands together. “I can’t tell you everything, of course, but I know a great deal. And this is by far one of the most impeccable feats I’ve ever seen of Maroisa and the other roots. It makes me excited to imagine all the possibilities! Everything my people can accomplish! Our future belongs to us and no Empire can take that away, Companions.”

“That’s a sentiment,” Ria frowns. “You’re optimistic. Not a bad thing, but—”

“But what? I should consider not being optimistic? What better thing is there than hope, mm?” The woman throws her hands into the air and shrugs. “I mean, realism and understanding of circumstances is always important—But I _know_ the Karthspire branch’s circumstances. We will endure. We will continue. We will remain. My optimism and hope for it is realistic, Companion.”

“Ria.”

“Ria the Companion. Quite a mouthful.” The woman laughs at Ria’s guffaw.

The stairs end abruptly fifty-feet or so up the cliff face. They lead into a snaking cave that feels damp and humid to an uncomfortable degree. Kaie is all too eager to explain it.

“—They don’t like the feeling of dry feathers.” The shaman hums thoughtfully. She trudges past Vilkas and calls forward into the depths of the cave. “Maroisa! _Maroisa!”_

The corridor emerges into a gaping cavern lit by lasting balls of light brought on by Magelight spells. The humidity lingers; Vilkas spies an ordeal of strange plants growing in planters and pots brought in from the outside. He does not recognize some of them, whereas others he identifies as strains of mountain flowers and common fungi. He sees glowing mushrooms hanging off walls, locates bizarre purple bulbs emitting light within their stalks, and notes the abundance of moss _everywhere._ The moss hangs off the ceiling, the walls, and seeps along the floor where it soaks in occasional, stagnant puddles. The cavern is also outfitted with various alchemical stations and what looks to be a set-up for enchanting objects.

Vilkas does not know much of the latter, but he can see soul gem shards scattered across the table. He shudders at the thought. The man turns his attention elsewhere, notably to the massive stone table stretching seven feet end-to-end. At the side of the table stands a hunched-over figure with black plumage meeting great, terrifying talons and an old woman’s face on the head. The Hagraven wears long black robes, but the colors meld into the individual’s feathers and makes her look like she has the entire body of an avian creature opposed to just claws and light plumage. When Kaie calls her name, she snaps to attention.

“Ahhhh…. My dear, dear, sweet, lovely… Hello, my dear…” The Hagraven croons in greeting. When Kaie runs over and wraps arms around her, Vilkas wants to heave. Ria begins to pale in color. The Hagraven chortles in a wheezing manner and draws away. “You bring new flesh?”

“Not today, grandmother,” Kaie tilts her head to one side, eyes twinkling. She looks at the Companions and gestures from one group to the Hagraven. “This is my grandmother, the root Maroisa. She is the eyes of the roots of Karthspire branch.”

“There are _others_ among us… But right now we are each occupied, mmm?” The Hagraven stoops forward and circles the three Companions. Ria grabs Filre and pulls him closer to her while Vilkas stands his ground and refuses to look away regardless of how sickly his stomach churns. Maroisa seems pleased by his courage; she cackles and wrings her wrists with the long talons at the end of her fingers. “A brave one… or… foolish? For what _reason_ do I have… the _pleasure_ of addressing such a delicious guest?”

 _Please don’t eat me._ Vilkas grits his teeth. He does not understand how a human can go from human to _that_. The Hagraven gives off such a wretched, unnatural aura that lycanthropy sounds _normal._ “—I was told there was a surprise?”

“Oh… Ah, yes, mm, mm, a surprise… For you? Or for her?” Maroisa sings the notes one-by-one, taking care in keeping her rattled voice fluid and moving. The old woman’s grin makes the Harbinger shiver silently. 

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Vilkas averts his gaze.

“I mean, we missed the best part. But shan’t have all the fun with just that. Where’s Namira?” Kaie looks around the cavern before gesturing at the empty stone table.

Now that Vilkas looks at it, he sees it has great stains of crimson and dark brown etched across its surface. Tatters of gore linger on the stone. He smells the distinct aroma of _blood_ and immediately bile begins to rise in the back of his throat. He chokes down the contents of his stomach and stares at the floor, willing his mind and body to settle. He feels only sympathy for Filre when the other Companion cannot stand it anymore and runs to the side to throw-up.

Maroisa hums thoughtfully. “Getting dressed… She was not _happy_ about… well. Many things.”

“Neither was I. With the dragons. The two dragons. That almost killed us.” The other Forsworn groans loudly.

When Vilkas looks up, he finds there are two rooms connected to the main cavern. He sees one room with a dark, wooden door blocking view of its contents or adjacent passageways. The other room has a dark wooden door but slivers of light and occasional shadow coming from the bottom, where a crack between the cave floor and door reveal a peek of what lays beyond. Movement can be heard beyond the door. The man’s brows furrow. He glances from Ria to Kaie and returns his incredulous and confused stare to Ria when Kaie reveals only a smug, pompous grin on her face. “Why are we here? What is there to surprise us with?”

“What?” Kaie interrupts the man before he can continue. She marches over and jabs him in the chest. “I told you! I _told_ you. In a hypothetical manner, Companion, that Hagravens, that the Forsworn’s _roots_ , are what connect us to the water! They do amazing things with magic. I aspire to be just like my grandmother one day.”

“You said something about an undead returning to life,” the Harbinger remarks softly. The man’s brows scrunch. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you mean—The aspect? Is that possible?”

“Oh, yes, yes, my dear… My precious… I meant to mention, a word with you, if you will—There is a _slight_ problem. Just a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy mess of… the waters I used,” Maroisa turns to Kaie and calls her over. The Hagraven wraps an arm around her granddaughter and whispers in a voice that is both quiet yet loud enough for Vilkas to strain his ears and hear. “— _You must understand, my dear, there is no… picking whom blesses us with the power used in such rituals. We do not seek to influence Namira a certain way._ ”

“Who did you use?” Kaie’s eyes grow big and she blurts out the words with no care for keeping quiet.

Maroisa sighs and shakes her head. She draws her arm back and looks at the Companions. “Oh, if you think they can be _trusted_ , my child, then—”

“I don’t know if they can be trusted, but I don’t think it matters. Not for this.” Kaie holds her head in one hand and sighs deeply. “Who did you use?”

“What’s going on?” Ria frowns and crosses her arms. The woman has yet to draw a weapon, but she feels tense and Vilkas sees it.

“—To call the, ahem, the _dead_ from beyond, to put one in… in a _new_ body… You need great, _great_ power, mm,” Maroisa rubs her hands together in a way that reminds Vilkas distinctively of what Kaie did on the short hike up the cave stairs. The Hagraven chortles softly and walks to the sole enchanter’s table in the cavern. She hefts up broken soul gem shards and lets them fall back unto the table’s dark surface. “Oh… Yes, we roots _use_ power… Magic… _Magicka…_ But this ritual requires… It needs more than, hmmm, than what mortals offer in flesh and blood, in souls and strife. It needs… the water.”

“The et’Ada,” Vilkas utters under his breath.

Kaie claps in enthusiasm at his memory. He grimaces and ignores her, returning his gaze to Maroisa.

The Hagraven howls in glee. “Yes, yes, yes! Oh… The _water_ … It flows, it pours, it _sees_ … It gives, it takes, and it offers… And a water came to me, yes, it did, sweet Companions, it came to me—It _offered._ I took what I was offered… I took, and I used, and the body was born of flesh and power of water…”

“Who was it?” Kaie’s voice drops any sign of humor. She frowns and stares at her grandmother with careful eyes. “We can’t send her off on another Hircine hunt. The last one ended up with these people. I’m not going on another dragon quest.”

“No, no, _no_ , not the Father of the Hunt, of the Great Chase, no, no! No, my dear, someone… Far more desirable than that… The water offered, and the water offered, and the water was accepted… And used… And the Lord of Indulgence blessed us with a body for the aspect, with flesh as tantalizing as the color of sin itself… A decadent result, a truly wretched, brilliant creation! The water gave!” Maroisa croons the declaration loudly.

“Sanguine?” Kaie utters under her breath. Her brows furrow. “That’s… Okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” The voice sounds eerily familiar. It comes from the door Vilkas saw a crack of light from, only instead of the door being shut it is now open. A woman in a suit of ebony armor shuts the door behind her and turns to face the group. She has an ebony helmet with a visor under one arm.

Vilkas stills and stares, bewildered and baffled. Part of the aspect does look like Vinci. Not entirely, because Vinci had long black hair that was soft to the touch and mesmerizing to run his hand through. Namira does not have any hair on her head, eyebrows or otherwise. Her skin is deathly white, to the point the Companion almost begins to question if any _resurrecting_ happened in the first place. Her eyes are green. They are what reel him in and leave him in a state of shock and disbelief, because they are so utterly _Vinci_ that for a moment, he almost says her name.

“This is Namira when she isn’t a rotting pile of flesh and bones,” Kaie offers a meager smile when the individual walks to her side. She scowls at the aspect lifting a hand and flickering her in the temple. _“Ow?”_

“There were,” the words are very different from the dry, rattled voice of a walking corpse. They sound real. The syllables make sense. There is no strain, only a reluctance to talk and perhaps an affinity for quiet. “…two dragons, Kaie. I did what I could. When I could. I didn’t take long on purpose.”

“…I apologized for that.” Kaie looks to the side. Her gaze dims. “I know you don’t _dawdle_ , you’re not me.”

“Not yet.” The aspect surmises. The woman puts on her helmet and turns to the two Companions, as Filre has since fled the cave for fresh air. Namira remains still and withdraw even as the woman states firmly. “You two are not Forsworn. You are Companions. Correct?”

“I… Yeah. Yes,” Vilkas clears his throat. He straightens upright. The man absentmindedly tucks a strand of loose hair behind his ear. “You’re… the aspect? The same as…”

“I am the aspect of Namira. That makes me a portion of Namira herself.” The aspect defines each sentence calmly and carefully. There is something to the words that the Harbinger cannot decipher; part of it sounds scripted or practiced. It leaves him feeling antsy. The man struggles to keep his gaze where he assumes the aspect’s eyes are behind her helmet.

“…We’ve traveled with you for days. Are you—Did you just now realize we’re Companions?” Ria’s voice contains a note of suspicion mixed into the humor.

The aspect shakes her head. “—I do not see well in the day. I cannot recognize faces the same as in the night.”

“…This is Ria,” Vilkas is cautious in saying names. He wishes the woman hadn’t put on her helmet. He has suspicions now, fueled of either conspiracy, paranoia, or meager attempts to fit mismatched puzzle pieces together. The man tries to catch any hint of change or a reaction when he goes on. “I’m Vilkas, Harbinger of the Companions.”

“…Maroisa, Kaie,” the aspect ignores him and turns to the two Forsworn present. “I have not bathed in weeks. I need a bath. I need to jump in the river.”

“You go do that. After— _After_ you change out of that armor. Et’Ada, I do not understand how you can stand to stay in that so long,” Kaie shakes her head. She sighs. “You can borrow a spare of my dresses if you forgot to wash yours.”

“…I need to jump in the river,” is all the aspect answers before she moves away and walks past the two Companions.

“We don’t usually get Sanguine’s help.” Kaie remarks offhand. She frowns and looks at Maroisa. “Will this be a problem?”

“Mm, no, no, mm, no, it _shouldn’t_ , she has self-control not to indulge in what the water tells her. It comes with… with the circumstances.” The Hagraven croons softly. “Give her time. It does not last longer than a day. Two at… mm, most?”

“Can ya’ll please explain what you mean by that?” Ria rubs her forehead. The Circle member meets Vilkas’s confused gaze with one of her own. “Do you understand?”

When Vilkas shakes his head, Maroisa begins to interject. “…The water… it sheds a drop of its origins on the aspect… By using its power—It will, for a time, influence the body it helped create. Oh, no, no, my dears, the aspect will be _fine_. But… it will be strenuous. Until it wears off… Such a dangerous game to play, trying to manage it on her own. She needs… space. Mm.”

Later in the day, when evening rushes upon the city, Vilkas is eventually greeted by Ria holding a plate of food. The Companion smiles at him and shoves it next to where he sits on one of the many chairs scattered across the fifth level. Vilkas lifts his head to meet Ria’s gaze and frowns at her. The man’s stomach growls before he can say he isn’t hungry.

“…C’mon, I know you want something.” Ria remarks. The woman huffs and crosses her arms. She eyes the Harbinger until he obliges and reluctantly chews on a slab of salmon.

It is seasoned well. The flavor oozes into his mouth and leaves him wanting more. Ria laughs at the expression on his face.

Vilkas begrudgingly rips off more from the slab and eats. Between bites, he offers a quick, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s been… Oblivion. It’s been Oblivion. These past weeks. But we’re here in Karthspire now. Did talking to Vrechinn give you anything useful?” The Circle member continues to stand and watch him. Vilkas has no doubt if he lies, she will be the first to know.

“That person wants me to commit a jailbreak.” Vilkas pinches the bridge of his nose. “She said she’ll trade information on Vinci for my help.”

“That’s…” Ria bites her lip. “The Companions aren’t political.”

“They aren’t meant to be.” The Harbinger agrees.

“I sense a ‘but’ in there.” Ria jabs a finger at him accusingly. “You aren’t thinking of actually—Are you? Vilkas— _Harbinger!_ ”

“I need to go there and see for myself if it’s even possible.” Vilkas holds his head in his hands. His mouth feels dry.

Ria gawks at him. “My friend, you are—Just—I can’t put my foot behind this! There’s no honor in breaking the law, Harbinger—”

“I _know_ that, Ria,” the man grits his teeth. “Which is why—I think you should take Filre back to Whiterun.”

The woman freezes in place. Color slowly drains from her face. She eyeballs him and marches up to his seat a moment later. “You’re going to go to Markarth and throw away your honor alone, Shield-Brother? Is that what you are saying?”

“Aye.” Vilkas shuts his eyes. “Don’t throw away your honor for a Harbinger who can’t keep his own.”

“This is asinine—”

“I _know_ it is. But I need to do it, Ria,” the man pleads softly. He looks at her with bleak, dim eyes. “I need you to go to Whiterun and inform the Circle. Tell the Dragonborn and my brother I may be gone a time.”

“Oblivion, I shoulda left Filre at home and not given you an excuse to make me walk all the way back there,” Ria’s hands clench. She finally sighs and shakes her head. “By the Divines, Vilkas, I won’t stop you. But I’m not happy about it.”

“I don’t think either of us are.” The Harbinger states quietly.

He does not eat much of the plate of food that evening, even after Ria retires for the night in one of the gers. He sees Filre passed out in a different gar; the man’s snoring is loud and abrasive in contrast to his friendly and talkative personality. _Or… maybe not. Maybe that fits him perfectly._

On request, the Companion’s hosts have given each of them a change of clothes. Vilkas ducks into a ger to doff armor and peel off his sweaty, grime-stained clothes. When he makes to pull on a fresh under garments, a clean tunic and breeches, the man pauses. He sniffs himself and grimaces in disgust. “I need a bath. Maybe two.”

According to Kaie, the Forsworn use a section of the river for bathing. It is shared, but when he pokes his head out of his ger and looks across the platform, he is relieved to see no one present. It is the time of the night most individuals begin to settle down; Vilkas imagines many of Karthspire’s residents intentionally avoid bathing at night due to the change in water temperature. The thought of cold doesn’t bother him. He is a Nord, and Nords are known for their resistance to Skyrim’s worst chills. The man grabs a fur-lined quilt before he slips on shoes and silently walks across the platform. The river underneath drifts gently beneath the platform. When he reaches the other side and peers out at the water, he sees occasional gleams of fish swimming by. The sight relaxes him.

He can do this. Vilkas drills a thought through his skull: if anyone sees him, they won’t care. Most of the residents of Karthspire bathe in the nude together. A lone man washing up won’t make them blink twice. He uses one of the tiny huts lining the side of the platform to undress and stash his clothes and the quilt in. The man feels apprehensive at stepping out of the hut naked but a quick look around determines the coast is clear. He strides to the edge of the platform and finds a ladder dipping into the waters below. He opts to climb it and quietly slip beneath the water’s surface. It isn’t as cold as he anticipates; to his surprise it feels almost lukewarm. The man surfaces and wipes his face off.

He doesn’t want to take longer than necessary, yet as time passes Vilkas finds the peace of the water relaxing. His mind shakes off the weights on his shoulders, the conflicts in his consciousness, and he shuts his eyes and stills to enjoy the moment. Removing the dirt and grime from his body is a refreshing process. He feels _invigorated_ by the time he finishes scrubbing his arms, legs, and chest. His long hair fans out and moves freely in the water. He shuts his eyes and spends a time floating in the water, finding shallows to stand in and enjoy the water’s calm, subtle motions. If the world could be like the river then he would not mind its hardships and tribulations.

What Vilkas does not expect is to float into another body in the river.

He recoils backward and slips beneath the surface of the water, surfacing with a sputter for air and wide eyes. He does not have his sword or armor; the man immediately becomes aware of his vulnerable state and the illogical possibility a bear might have fallen into the canyon. He does not want to fight a bear naked.

He does not hear a gasp of surprise or any other indication the other individual is bothered by the sudden meeting. When he looks, he makes out dark green eyes attached to a horrifyingly white face.

“Hi,” he mumbles, treading water to stay in place while his mind begins to swarm.

The aspect of Namira returns to floating on her back. She does not heed him or his nudity much attention as she states quietly. “—If you’re loud, people will come look.”

“Right,” the man forces his eyes away. He does not need to get ideas in his head about things that aren’t happening. Vilkas’s mind grabs unto any other thought it can. “—Why are you in a river?”

“Same reason you are.” The aspect shows no hesitancy answering.

“You wanted a bath.”

“I said that earlier, didn’t I?” Namira glances at him. She blinks slowly. “I did. I know I did. I’m taking a bath. Floating. Thinking. Same as you, really, only I’d have thought you would take a bath at a different hour.”

Vilkas lets the current carry him a short distance away, where a rock protrudes out of the water’s edge an inch. He holds unto it and keeps his gaze anywhere but the aspect’s nude body. “…I don’t like bathing with others.”

“You get used to it eventually.” Namira’s voice is sincere but blunt.

The Harbinger frowns. He does not look—he will not look, out of respect and horror—but he calls over to the aspect. “—Why don’t you bath during the day, then?”

“I used to,” the aspect informs him. “But things change, Harbinger. People change. I have lost much of my will to see in the daytime. Light itself begins to hurt. I need a shroud of darkness.”

“You’re the Ancient Darkness. That…” Vilkas holds his tongue.

Namira ceases floating and rolls unto her stomach. The motion makes Vilkas glance. He realizes she is not _floating_ but sprawled across a boulder just beneath the surface, no doubt easily held unto against the subtle current. The aspect peers at him. “I am Namira, the Lady of Decay. A sliver of her power… But her grip on me has grown stronger over the years. It wasn’t always like this.”

“You mentioned… You said as—As a skeleton—”

“An undead.” The aspect’s tone becomes cold a moment. The woman looks away. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? I said a lot of things on the way here.”

Vilkas frowns. He remembers, now, how the aspect acted the nights leading up to Karthspire. He has a chance to ask questions, and from how effortlessly the woman speaks, Vilkas imagines she is more capable of answering than she was as an undead in a full suit of armor. “—Why do they put you on watch? When you travel.”

Namira seems taken aback by the question. The aspect squints and eyes him. “They don’t unless I am like that.”

“Like that.” Vilkas repeats the words. The Harbinger frowns. “Why?”

“I do not require sleep in that state. There is no reason to make either the two stay up when I am up anyways,” the aspect huffs aloud.

“Makes sense.” Vilkas acknowledges quietly. He meets the green gaze and peers at it. He cannot stop himself from blurting out. “—Why do you look like _that?_ ”

“Like…?” Namira’s eyes narrow on him.

The Harbinger shuts his eyes. “You… You look like someone I knew.”

“Like a hairless ghoulish woman with green eyes?” The humor is dry in Namira’s voice. She shakes her head. “When the Hagravens conduct their ceremony, they give me only what is necessary. Hair takes time to grow back in; there is no use in expending unnecessary magicka.”

“Your eyes. What about your eyes? Why green?”

“I,” the aspect hesitates. Namira looks to the side. “I am not like this when the body is first made, Harbinger. I am… a dark mass. An embodiment of the Ancient Darkness. I take on whatever form I desire. I could have different eyes, if I wanted. I could have… Brown. Or gray. Or blue. But right now—I like green.”

“Green eyes are beautiful.” The words slip out before he can think them through.

The aspect falls quiet. She turns her back to him. “Harbinger, you confuse me.”

“I do?” Vilkas stares.

“You are talking to an aspect of Namira. You said it yourself. Because of me—You and Farkas lost your youth. Your innocence. My followers took it from you—”

“I never said his name.” Vilkas cuts the woman off. His eyes widen a moment before he stares at the aspect and clarifies. “—I never told you my brother’s name. How— _How do you know it?”_

No answer comes.

He realizes, when the aspect rubs her eyes, the woman wears a single glove on her right palm. The glove isn’t a gauntlet; it looks thin from a distance. Vilkas feels his stomach churn uncomfortably as the man asks, “Why—Why are you wearing that?”

“That’s not important.” Namira’s voice is reluctant.

“No—No, it is. It is.” Vilkas refutes. The Companion lifts his right hand out of the water and stares at the back of his right palm. The scar tissue from the brand he received as a child lingers there, as ugly and grotesque as it was when he received it. He fights the bitterness down and turns his attention back to the aspect. “Why are you wearing a glove in a bath?”

“Because,” the aspect grits her teeth. “Because I want to wear a glove in a bath. Why and what I do is not relevant to _you,_ Harbinger.”

“Do you have a mark on the back of your hand?” He stares.

He suddenly finds the pair of green eyes on him. The man isn’t sure what to think when the aspect lurches through the water and swims to him. He cannot tear his gaze away; his long hair sticks to his neck from where his upper half stays above water. The Harbinger observes Namira wading and swimming through the water until she is within arm’s reach. She bites on the glove and pulls it off effortlessly, revealing the sheen of rot on the back of the woman’s right palm. The aspect’s eyes hold a bitterness to them that provokes guilt in Vilkas.

Namira waves the hand in front of his face. “The rot _begins_ with this hand, Harbinger. Can you smell it? The necropsy of my palm? Do you see the bones? This is what the rest of me becomes eventually. It’s what I revert to. And when I do—Death follows. I do not want to accidentally rot a person into _Oblivion._ I am trying to keep others safe!”

She pulls the glove back on and turns away. The snap in her tone is enough to tell the Harbinger he’s fucked up in his words.

“…I’m sorry,” Vilkas tries to reach out a hand but withdraws it the second he sees the aspect recoil from him. The man exhales sharply. “I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m not Leilani Whitemane, Harbinger.” The aspect barks. “You should accept that and move on.”

The Harbinger feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He inches away in the water. “I don’t—”

 _“Don’t_ lie in Karthspire. They will kill you for dishonesty. The Forsworn uphold their own form of honor. I am a guest; I can’t and won’t step in if your Companions step out of line.” Namira warns. The woman’s eyes are full of different emotions, each hinting a little more at the storm inside.

But there’s something else in the mess. The tiny glimpse of concern filters through the aspect’s restraint. Vilkas frowns and peers at her. He holds his palms up and states softly. “I’ll remember it. I’m sorry. Talos, I shouldn've said any of that," he averts his gaze. The man lowers his hands and bites the inside of his cheek. "...I guess... I do see you as like my friend. You keep reminding me of her—But—I should keep that to myself. It ain’t what you are. Is it?”

The hesitancy in the aspect’s answer makes him stare.

“…Namira?” Vilkas asks.

The woman’s fists clench. She grits her teeth and grabs her head. “You need to stop. To stop. _Stop._ ”

“I’ll stop,” the Harbinger moves away, though his eyes remain fixated on the aspect with mild alarm. “You alright? I’ll—I can get Kaie.”

“Don’t,” The woman barks at him. She turns back to him and snarls. “You are a selfish man, Harbinger. Disgusting. _Repulsive!_ Everything—Every little thing since Dunstad—Has been done—Trying to keep this world safe! Trying to keep you safe! And _you_ just—Keep—Throwing—Everything— _Away!”_

The words take him aback. He starts to speak but his speech is a jumbled mess of his mind trying desperately to catch up and process what the aspect says. “How can—How can you want to _protect me_ when you don’t know me?!”

The water drifts lazily around the two.

“…I do know you,” Namira says softly. “But you don’t know me, Harbinger. You never did. You never…” The aspect trails off. She shuts her eyes and inhales the night air. When she opens her eyes next, the woman’s green gaze seems different. The intensity of it makes Vilkas still. He struggles to remember oxygen when she draws close to him. He feels his heart start to thud in his ears. His eyes lock with hers and his breath hitches when the woman leans forward and steals his lips with her own.

It leaves his mind a blank and his body drenched in need.

But nothing else follows it. The man can’t think fast enough to ask the woman to wait or to ask her more questions before she’s gone, having climbed up the ladder and disappearing into one of the changings huts. He feels bile rise in the back of his throat. The taste mixes with relief, horror, and panic as realization climbs up his spine and worms its way into his head, bringing with it a memory of six years ago at the Skyforge.

Vinci’s kiss tastes just as sweet a moment ago as it did back then.


	31. (smut) rot in oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aspect of namira is an existence of doomed circumstances. there is nothing for her in the future, but there might be something found in the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (smut confetti)
> 
> TW for:  
> -reference to past child abuse  
> -vomiting
> 
> and then the smut is pretty vanilla

It is easy to destroy but hard to create. The act of taking life comes without thought, but the act of protecting it requires focus when everything else screaming in her head demands _rot, rot, rot_. The opposing values are in an endless conflict with one another, a mess among hundreds of thoughts ripping and tearing each other in tandem with her existence. She has been a mess for a long time, but she could manage the mess when the Companion’s Harbinger wasn’t present.

 _Why does he have to be here?_ She rakes the thought over her mind like coals of a fire.

The woman hisses at no one but herself. She pulls the glove on her right palm off and growls at the mess of rot mingling and bordering the disgusting white flesh. She cusses it out halfway to Oblivion. Namira’s marking no longer brands her flesh; it bores a large hole through her palm and leaves a calcified white skeletal hand behind. She knows she can move it; even without the necessary physiology required, she can make the bony fingers bend and retract. But it infuriates her. It disturbs her. It enrages her to a point she picks up the table of her _ger_ and slams it against the wall.

“You’re the cause of this!” She screeches at herself. She points at the hand in question and hisses with all the venom bubbling in her voice, “You repulsive _Daedra!”_

 _“A Prince, actually. You should know this by now.”_ The voice echoes clearly in her mind, but she knows who it belongs to. Namira’s fists clench, bone, flesh, and all, as a figure of pitch black rises from the floorboards and tilts its head at her.

“Shut up!” The woman grabs a waterskin off the floor and chucks it through the Prince. It squashes against the wall beyond Namira’s shadowed form.

The Ancient Darkness hums thoughtfully. _“Your aim continues to marvel me. Your thought process… less so._ ”

“You disgust me.”

_“We disgust each other. A beautiful tandem of ills and ailments…”_

“I won’t stoop so low. Not again. Not…” The woman shakes her head clear of the thought. She inhales deeply. Namira turns away from herself, from _her_ shadow, and kneels next to her bag. It, like everything else in the medium-sized ger, is askew on the floor. Everything from the humble cot to the cushions to the chest of what was formerly clean clothes—it is a mess on the ground. She is not capable of thinking clearly long enough to _clean_ and _organize_ when assholes like herself hang around in the corner of her vision. Namira grabs a silver-steel dagger from her pack and chucks it. The blade spins end-on-end and impales in the wall directly behind where the Prince’s head would be—If the Ancient Darkness were tangible.

Namira cusses herself out. When it comes from the shadow, it brings only repulsion. She knows the Daedric Prince would smile if she had any features. Namira does not want to imagine what a tangible manifestation of the Lady of Decay would look like.

 _“Like you. You’re an extension of myself. You’re… everything I will surpass. A glimpse of the future.”_ The Ancient Darkness whispers in her ear.

“Rot in Oblivion!” She snaps at herself. Her hands go for her shadow’s throat, but the darkness dissipates and reforms in another corner of the room. She spins on her heels and seethes while the Ancient Darkness holds up an amorphous limb over where she imagines the Prince’s mouth would be.

She finds a moment’s respite when the Prince finally disappears from her ger. The woman’s peace ends in a sudden mess of gasps and choking. She looks down; the aspect watches the shadows creep up her flesh and over her tunic. The Ancient Darkness climbs higher yet, never stopping until it wraps itself around her throat and squeezes. She tries to rip it off but her nails dig into her own flesh. Her rotten hand clenches her windpipe and begins to apply pressure against her will. She throws herself against the wall of the ger and crashes to the ground, kicking and thrashing against the darkness until it relents and dissolves. Her rotten hand freezes in place and she pries the limb off her throat.

She does not stop heaving and retching for several hours, coughing up the contents of the past evening’s meals, bile, and eventually dry-heaving when there is nothing left to fork over to repulsion. She heaves until her throat burns from stomach acid. Her eyes are bloodshot from a lack of sleep. In the middle of the mess she stills and hears a voice echo faintly in the back of her mind. It is only a taunt, nothing compared to what it could be, but the voice of the Ancient Darkness almost sets off another coughing fit.

 _You can’t hold me back forever._ Namira hears herself clearly.

She holds her head in her hands and fights the urge to sit and cry for hours.

She is not a child. She does not run. She must determine her next step. Planning and decisive thinking are the only ways she has not caved in on herself and fallen into an incoherent, babbling mess. _The first year post-Dunstad will not be repeated. I have to handle myself. I have to. I have to._

And she will, when she is done acknowledging the mess she is not only a part of, but also the second mess she has created. One is simply _fate._ She understands the ramifications of existing as an aspect—At least, she understands what the Forsworn’s roots tell her. She cannot speak for _everything_ when so much remains unclear, but she understands Maroisa’s warning. The magic of the Hagravens will not last forever. It is only a matter of time before Namira grows resistant to the old magicka and the body no longer returns to that of a living, breathing creature. She knows when that day comes, she will be held together solely by Namira’s will and power. The repulsion will overwhelm her. She knows she cannot exist as a perpetual undead when just a second of it is a nightmarish folly of pain.

But the second mess—The second mess she must handle. She needs to. She must. She will, eventually, when she is done terrorizing her poor ger’s furniture and her own possessions. It is a way of lashing out, a way of causing her future self-grief, because she understands she does not really want to destroy and mess up her own things. All it does it bring her more trouble and take up more time, the latter which she already has so little of. She needs control over _something;_ her poor equipment is the only thing she will purposely ruin.

She starts by prying her knife out of the ger’s back wall. The silver-steel dagger is not really hers, but its owner died in front of her. She considers it her own now. Namira finds her gloves and slips them on afterward. She needs to be more mindful of people who obsess over knowing why she sometimes wears one glove and not two. That, and she needs to be more mindful of people in general; she cannot bring herself to say she _regrets_ asking Ohdon to allow the Companions to come to Karthspire, but part of her remains sore at herself over the whole mess.

If the Companions had been anyone but Vilkas, anyone but _him_ , she would not have tolerated their lives that night. But the Companions had Vilkas. The Companion’s Harbinger was there and even in the middle of a bloody Hircine-fueled frenzied hunt, she could not allow the _flying lizards_ to harm him.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. She needs to calm down. She shouldn’t think of him as anything but a Harbinger now. Six years is a long time, and she had hoped the two would never cross paths across the vastness of Skyrim for the duration of her existence, for the duration of the time before Namira takes over and unleashes rot across Nirn. She never asked for him to become involved. She does not enjoy whatever Aedra’s sick joke it is to force her to face him again.

 _I should have left. I should have left the second I bumped into him in that river._ She wants to tear out hair but the current living form has none. It likely won’t grow in for days, if she even lives that long. She distinctly recalls a time Maroisa spent hours pouring flesh and blood and the power of an et’Ada to create her a temporary living body, only for Namira to trip over the edge of a sleep slope and break her neck on the tumble down. The memories make Namira grit her teeth and exhale sharply. _I’m a fool. Maroisa told me she accepted Sanguine’s power this time. The Lord of Desire fuels this life. I should have stayed inside. I shouldn’t have gone out to begin with._

But she needed the bath. Namira desperately _craved_ it, like a moth drawn to a flame. The pull was courtesy of Sanguine, the aspect has _zero_ doubts about that. The unearthly drive to fulfill desires not typically thought of was enough to make her want to drown herself in the river and ruin the Forsworn roots’ work resurrecting her. Part of the desire lingers eight hours past the ceremony’s end. She briefly considers it: _If I drown myself, I don’t have to explain myself to the Harbinger._

It is a tempting offer. She wishes she could take herself up on the thought. She is not someone who can force herself to do that. Of all the things she has done and will continue to do, avoiding Vilkas only goes so far. He has always been a sharp man. Even before she kissed him, she knows she fumbled enough information; he was beginning to piece together everything. She counts herself lucky he did not call her out before the groups got to Karthspire.

 _I made this mess._ She sinks to the ground and sighs. The woman finds a dark-brown shawl and pulls it over her tunic. It is not yet dawn; she believes the world is asleep _as it should be._ She has permission to access the Forsworn’s stores. Her stomach begs for food.

Namira shuts the entrance of the ger behind her. She exhales softly and turns around just to recoil backward and nearly draw a concealed blade from her tunic’s sleeve. The aspect’s arms drop to her sides. She peers up at the Harbinger’s weary gaze, not backing from them. She should have known better than to assume he would be asleep. He has his own share of insomnia; she doubts six years wipes that slate clean.

“Vinci—” The name is wrong and the Harbinger doesn’t know it’s wrong and _everything about that_ makes Namira’s body tense. She does not look forward to the conversation that is about to unfold. She clenches her eyes shut and fails to zone out the Nord’s words as he goes on. “—I need to talk to you.”

“You _will_ call me Namira.” Is the first thing the aspect snaps. She does not enjoy the man’s frown, but it is imperative she gets that through his thick and well-groomed head. She anticipates having to repeat her words over and over, but to her surprise the Harbinger nods.

“—Namira. Can we—” When he gestures at the ger, she grimaces and pulls open the door-like flap. She has half the mind to leave him there and take a running leap off the platform into the waters below, but she holds off on it.

She can feel the unspoken questions ricochet around the room. The floor of the ger is still a mess. She tilts her head to one side but does not address it. “Ask.”

“…” The hesitancy in the man makes her clench her eyes shut.

She does not look forward to the conversation unfolding.

“What is going on?” Is his first question.

She sucks in a deep breath. “The Forsworn have graciously given me a place to stay, Harbinger.”

She needs to remember to address him as Harbinger. It detaches him from her mind and helps sever the connection she has with _Vilkas_.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” His tone is firm. He’s an astute observer and she imagines he notes every last bit of conflict to come crawling over her face.

“You shouldn’t go around asking things that don’t involve you,” the aspect retorts after a moment. Her fists clench. “You shouldn’t go around pining after _dead women for six years._ ”

“That—That has no relevancy. By Mara…” Vilkas shuts his eyes. He sighs heavily. “Why are you going by _Namira_? Why are they calling you an _aspect of Namira?_ Why and how are you… Sometimes… Not living?”

She looks to the side. She does not want to talk about things. She does not want to think about any of it. But she did kiss him, and she did run away after; part of her feels he is owed at least a sliver of her mess. He must have a reason to ask.

“…Harbinger.” The aspect pauses, momentarily stilled by the realization his eyes are darker. “You’re not a werewolf.”

“No. I’m not. Not—Not anymore.” Vilkas frowns.

“That explains a lot,” she says under her breath. The woman steps to the side and flops unto a cushion. Her eyes rise to meet his and she blinks slowly. “What do you think is the reason, Harbinger?”

“Vilkas.”

Namira raises a brow.

The Harbinger sighs. “Don’t—You don’t have to keep using that title. You didn’t call me _Circle_ before.”

“You weren’t part of the Circle most of my time in Whiterun,” the woman recalls. She looks to the side. “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

“I can leave after. If you—If you want.” The Harbinger rubs the back of his head. His hair has gotten long. She remembers the mess of it stuck to him in the river. She had craved the touch and feel of it, but her impulse control stepped in before things got out of hand.

The aspect’s gaze dims. “Why couldn’t you forget about _Vinci_ , Harbinger? Why couldn’t you _move on_ and leave her behind? Why did you come out to the middle of Forsworn territory? Go in their city? _Take a fucking bath in the middle of the night?_ Why are you like this?”

“I’m not apologizing for adhering to my own schedule, Namira.” It is clear using the name of the Daedric Prince makes the man uncomfortable. Part of her wants to commend him for doing it anyways. Another part of her is vastly irritated that she wants to commend him at all. Vilkas shifts his weight and leans against one wall of the ger. He keeps his gaze on hers. “What in Oblivion is going on? Why—Where did you go after Fort Dunstad?”

“I don’t know.” That part comes honestly. The woman holds her head in her hands. “I wasn’t _myself_ at that time.”

“Namira—”

“It’s not—” She grits her teeth and catches herself. At the man’s stare, she hisses at him. “I was busy being controlled by an _Ancient Darkness_ , Harbinger. That sound familiar?” She regrets being so sharp, because she sees his frown deepen. The woman’s shoulders slump and she looks away. “Sorry.”

“…The Lady of Decay. Namira.” Vilkas utters softly. “What did she do?”

“What do you think she did, Vilkas?” Namira wants to cuss herself out for using his name. She is already failing at keeping herself in check and not becoming an emotional mess in the middle of her pre-existing mess. She grits her teeth. “She murdered all of them. She made them _rot_. And I—I let her. I let her. They deserved it for murdering Tulle. I don’t care that they died. I don’t regret they did. They should’ve shot me more.” For a moment she looks at her arms for scars of the crossbow bolts, but she remembers there are none. The scars fade with each new form created from the power of the et’Ada Maroisa and other roots call upon.

Vilkas does not say a word. When she looks, the aspect sees conflict is equally party to the mess in his mind.

She narrows her gaze. “Why couldn’t you forget about me?”

“Because none of the bodies were definitively yours,” Is what the Harbinger eventually says. The man shuts his eyes and inhales shakily. “I spent… too long… checking them. Again. Again. Again. Over, and over, until my brother and Rune dragged me away from the fort by force.”

The words make her flinch. She looks away. “Be glad you didn’t find me, Harbinger. I’d have killed you, too. All of you. Or made one of you kill me.”

“Is that,” Vilkas grits his teeth. “Is that really the truth, Namira?”

“It is. I’m not… This isn’t a happy reunion. This isn’t a dream come true, Harbinger. Why couldn’t you stay out of it?” the aspect begins to curse under her breath. She draws her knees up to her chest and leans her head back against one of the ger’s walls. “You aren’t going to find joy here, Vilkas. You aren’t—You don’t realize what’s going on, even. You… Oblivion. Rot it all away.” She utters the latter sentence and begins to curse again.

The Harbinger’s arms drop to his side. He eyes are weary. “I keep being told _something_ is going on. But no one tells me what—"

“That’s by request.” The aspect interrupts him. Her green eyes are cold. “I wanted you to stay out of it. I want you to have a happy life. I thought you’d have found one by now.”

“I have a happy life.” The Harbinger sounds offended by her words. Vilkas breathes deeply. “I haven’t spent all my time fixated on you, Namira. I’ve been… I’ve survived. I’ve struggled. I’m the Harbinger now. Kodlak left me a legacy to fill and I’ve done my damn near best to fill it. The Companions are growing. I have an amazing nephew and niece. I put up with too much of Rune’s nonsense most weeks. My life doesn’t revolve around you.”

The news comes as a relief to her. She shuts her eyes and nods slowly. For a moment, she thinks about smiling, but she abstains. The woman looks back at Vilkas and says softly, “It makes me happy to hear.”

The man’s posture tenses. He frowns and peers at her. “…Why?”

She pushes herself to her feet and stands. The woman pats down her tunic. She focuses on long, steady breaths. She thinks through the words to use, the things to say, and then she tells him, “Because—One day I’ll be gone. And Nirn will have to deal with a Lady of Rot leaving devastation in her wake. But you’ll be okay. You, and Farkas, and… those people in Whiterun. Your Companions. You’ll survive.”

“You’re worried about me,” The Harbinger states quietly. “But I’m worried about _you_.”

“You shouldn’t be—” That is but one of the many, many painful parts of the conversation. Her stomach begins to twist and flip-flop at her own words. But the aspect desires honesty. She desires being honest with him, at least. Maybe no one else—But at least him. She frowns. “I told you. The… Last night. I’ve known you. You don’t know me, Harbinger. I was wrong about myself. I’m not—I’m not a child of darkness. I’m not Leilani Whitemane come back from the dead. I am an aspect of Namira; a sliver of her power summoned and bound into a malleable form on Nirn. I’ve never been your friend from the darkness. I am… part of the darkness. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t—I can’t believe that.” The Harbinger’s hands tense. He shakes his head. “That doesn’t—It doesn’t explain—You have flashbacks of that time! You’ve… You know her song. You know her _song_.”

“She was the offering used to summon me. She was enough to bind part of myself to the mortal world,” The aspect confesses softly. “The feast was interrupted—The people in masks didn’t finish the summoning correctly. It blurred the lines between the offering and me, Harbinger—That’s why I have her memories. That’s why…” She trails off. She cannot stand herself at that moment. She is a liar, and a fraud, and a _Daedra._ She is part of a Prince. She will one day be overwhelmed by the rest of herself and provide a gateway for the Prince to invade Nirn.

Her eyes begin to water. She didn’t lie when she said she fought Namira for control because of _love_. She genuinely does like the world. She loves the sky. She loves the night auroras. She loves the mountains and their great, scaling heights. She loves the ideas found in different regions, the adaptions to life, and the enduring resolve of Skyrim’s inhabitants to continue and survive against all odds. She loves the thought of living, but she is not a mortal and she cannot truly be alive when her hands are tied to the _Ancient Darkness._

“I can’t believe that. I won’t.” The Harbinger’s words are quiet but firm. He sighs. “Talos guide me. What kind of Daedra apologizes to a mortal, Namira? That isn’t the answer. It’s not… It isn’t. Even if part of you winds up being… the darkness. Part of you’s still you. The _you_ I’ve come to know, to care about. Vinci.”

The name is the equivalent to nails scraping down a pane of glass in her head. She snaps at him in a second, eyes full of grief continuing to unfurl. “Why can’t you accept it, you stubborn, stubborn Companion? Why can’t you accept you know nothing about _this?_ Can’t you leave me to rot in peace? I don’t…” The woman stills. She looks at the ground. “I can’t stop myself from taking over, Harbinger. It’s going to happen. And when it does—It’s only going to cause you grief—I’m only going to cause you grief! I don’t want that.”

Vilkas pauses. He contemplates something, but what exactly is beyond her. The man hesitates before asking. “What do you want, Namira?”

“For you to be happy. For you to be safe.” The aspect whispers.

She looks up at him when he strides to her side and cups her face. She shakes and leans into him when the man leans down and kisses her. He draws away a second later, only to tell her softly, “That makes me happy. That makes me feel safe. You make me—" He does not bother to finish the sentence, pressing long, tender kisses against her lips. The man’s hands trail her neck and dip to her shoulders. He pulls back enough to look her in the eye. “You make my life better. Not… Not the opposite. _Vinci._ _Namira._ I can’t forget the people I care about.”

She feels his hands dip lower. A long time ago, she might have reacted differently. She doesn’t flinch away from him. She presses her body into his touch. It is not Sanguine that urges her to stoke the desires ripe beneath her surface. It is the desire itself, like a budding sprout or climbing sapling breaking through a layer of dirt after a long time underground. She inhales deeply when she feels his fingers carefully dance and explore her torso, tracing the line of her body.

“I want to know if,” the man hesitates. “You want this?”

She draws back and stares at him. He is a handsome man, too kind-hearted for his own good and terribly capable of making her respond in ways she might otherwise avoid or abstain from. His hair is long and beautiful. She reaches for it and runs a hand down its length, lost in the softness of it all. The brief gleam of humor in Vilkas’s eyes is a sight she didn’t know she needs. Her hands slide from his hair to his jawline and cups his face. She can feel the desire brew and simmer inside her stomach.

She finds his hands return to her face and he grabs and kisses her with more force than before. The man exhales against her and presses her against the ger wall. He nestles his head in the crook of her neck and plants a string of kisses along it. He doesn’t stop until his lips have left their mark in every exposed inch of flesh.

“Let me lead,” he tells her. Vilkas’s hands fall to her torso. He undoes the clasps of her shawl and helps her take it off, tossing it to the side. He loosens her tunic to the point it can be slipped out of, revealing the woman’s bare chest. Vilkas looks at her and inhales sharply. “I think—You’re beautiful.”

“Like this?” Namira breathes.

He kisses her in place of an answer.

Vilkas loosens the belt holding up his breeches. He lets Namira pull his shirt free. The man looks around and frowns at the upturned cot. “—Should I fix that—”

“No.” The aspect answers. She feels the route to connection beginning to pick up inside her. She yearns for the man.

He gently pull down her breeches. She steps out of them. Vilkas puts a hand on her thigh. He looks at Namira and pauses. “I… Want to do something. Okay?”

The aspect nods. Her eyes clench shut when she feels the man’s breath against her groin. She whimpers at the feeling of a hot, wet tongue pushing into her lower folds. She feels warm fingers spread her open; her legs begin to wobble from the wave of pleasure flooding her body. Her hips begin to rock in tune to the motion set by the tongue, the hands, the Harbinger. Her hands grip his hair, silently pleading for more. She cannot keep quiet. Every emotion she left buried beneath the surface six years ago comes pouring out in a wave of heat and raw need to be close to him.

She suddenly drags him up and kisses him. She can feel his surprise last a second before it melts. The man caresses her face and leans against her. She bites his lip; he shudders against her touch. Her hands stroke his bare chest and revel in the feeling of his muscles, his skin, his hair. She wants to devour it all, but the need to keep kissing him overrules the urge. When the man’s hands drop to her groin, she gasps and falls back. Her eyes watch his eyes shift and reflect resolve. His lips land on her neck and he nibbles the skin there. At the same time, his hand strokes her clit. She lets out an inaudible mash of syllables when his fingers finally duck beneath and push inside.

She cannot stop herself from shaking. She clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck and desperate for everything he does. Her voice comes out in pleads and croaks of, “More—More—More—”

She hears his sharp intake of breath. The man slowly fingers her while he draws back and looks her in the eyes. Her entire face is red; she cannot stop panting and pleading when her entire body feels like it is on fire.

The finger curls inside her. She shakes and shrieks but Vilkas silences her with his lips. He kisses her tenderly while she writhes against him. Every time his finger thrusts into her she cannot help but gasp or heave in want. It is good, but it is not good enough, and she wants more than just that. Her breathing hitches and she draws back enough to look the man in the eye. She whimpers again and her head drops against his shoulders when his finger curls against a sweet spot deep inside her body. Her muscles grip him tightly and she struggles to breathe his name. “Vilkas—Vilkas.”

“Mm,” the man pauses a moment. She lifts her head and stares at him. His eyes are unbelievably warm. He’s _happy_ , and the realization of that makes Namira forget what she was going to say. The aspect’s hands come up to his face and she kisses him until both are out of breath. The Harbinger stops and gives her a look. “You—Are you okay?”

“I want you to be.” She mumbles. She seizes his lips before he can respond, stealing as many kisses as the stars above Karthspire. She shuts her eyes and stops long enough to add, “—I don’t want you to be hurt more because of me—”

The man sighs and draws back his hand. It’s absence leaves an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, but fire soon fills it when Vilkas lifts her up and lays her on the ground atop a mess of cushions and blankets. He looks down at her and waits until her eyes are on his before he states. “—I told you—Six years ago—Please start being more selfish.”

“I’m bad at that.” Her gaze dims, but she relaxes when the man leans down and kisses her.

“Now’s a good time to start.” Vilkas remarks softly. His mouth leaves her lips, trails down her chin and neck, and comes to a stop at her chest. He latches on to one breast and tenderly flicks his tongue against the nipple. Her back arches and she calls his name as his other hand massages and rubs circles against her other breast. His sudden stop leaves her in a stupor of confusion while he watches her. “—What happens when dawn comes?”

 _When the sunlight returns._ Is what he wants to know. Namira feels both of the man’s course hands knead her chest while she struggles to think. “It—It’s hard. Harder to think. Exist. Control her. I can’t see faces in the day. Only silver.”

“Then,” Vilkas sits up. The man wriggles out of his under garments and inhales deeply. “Then—I should make sure we’re done by then.”

She feels fresh heat crawl into her cheeks. She tries to avert her eyes, to not stare in fear it might make him uncomfortable, but the Harbinger calls her attention back to him. His gaze is adoring. His hands are gentle when he slowly nudges her legs open. When he inches between them and the tip of his shaft rubs against her, she begins to shake and drown in need. Her pleads turn to whines as she stares up at him. Vilkas lines himself up and locks eyes with her. He slowly penetrates her. The man has more girth than a finger, but all the foreplay oozes out of her and sucks him in. She begins to whimper as what is one inch inside becomes two, becomes three, and goes on, and on, and on, until she cannot think of anything other than his presence.

She feels his body shift and move against her in a way that leaves her shaking beneath him. The Harbinger flips the two to have her lay flush against him. His hands find hers and he laces their fingers together before giving her a soft squeeze. She pants against his bare skin. She feels him press a kiss to her head.

When he moves, she gasps and guffaws on top of him. Her body trembles from the endless stimulation of the man inside her. Her muscles clamp around him in a desperate attempt to get him to stay, but when his hips roll he begins to withdraw only to penetrate her again. Her cries become breathless and she hears him start to pant as the two’s hips smack against each other. Each second after, when he is deepest and she is wrapped up in him, fuels an intimate connection she desperately craves like nothing else. She pushes her body against his and shakes at the sound of his whimper when her nipples drag across his chest. His eyes lock on hers but a moment before the man is kissing her in a sloppy, sex-induced frenzy.

Her lips give as much as they take. His fingers squeeze her own and he breathes her names against her as he thrusts. The coil in her abdomen begins to tighten. She can only think of him when her entire body tenses around him. A second later, she orgasms with a cry of his name on her lips and his body buried deep inside hers. Vilkas melts and whines as he continues to thrust. Every inch drags and scraps sensitive tissue in her afterglow; her body trembles against his. She orgasms a second time as the man suddenly jerks and pulls her over him. His shaft pulses inside of her. She sucks in shallow, loud gulps of air as he ejaculates inside of her. The heat is too much for her not to collapse against him. His hands let go of hers and he wraps himself around her as her afterglow sucks away any thoughts of the future and leaves her only with him in the present.

When she finally finds energy to look up at him, she sees a brilliant smile on his face. His eyes glow with warmth. The sight is too beautiful for her not to kiss him, so she does. He whispers against her lips before kissing her back, “You make me happy.”


	32. (smut) open to suggestions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the hours following, there's things that need to be talked through between the harbinger of the companions and the aspect of namira. but first they need to get dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn't planned it just kinda  
> happened  
> (smut confetti continues)
> 
> the smut itself is still pretty vanilla
> 
> TW's for other stuff in the chapter:  
> -allusions to past child abuse / death

The act of getting dressed together sparks a soft, simple intimacy between the two. There is something refreshing found in the way Namira helps straighten out his shirt, or the way he reaches around her waist to put a belt on over her tunic. It is a tiny thing that indicates a _start_ to something else. He hopes it entails many, many things, because the proximity to the aspect draws him in and he knows he could die happy at her side. Vilkas can’t help but take her left hand when they are done dressing; he holds it in both of his. The woman pauses and stares at him, something between perplexed and flustered.

“You make me happy,” he repeats.

“You’ve said that seven times in one hour.” Namira comments. The woman’s face betrays her actual feelings; Vilkas is thrilled to see the faint blush dusting her skin.

“It’s true.” He insists. He brings her hand to his lips and presses a soft, supple kiss to her knuckles. The man releases it after and tilts his head to one side. “You doing okay?”

“Thinking,” is the answer he gets.

Vilkas squints at her. He moves close and wraps her up in his arms. “If you want—You can tell me. I want to be here for you—”

“Where do I start?” The words confuse him.

“—What you mean?” The Harbinger stares. He looks down at her.

“I’m… Gods, Vilkas,” the aspect sighs. “This is all—It’s complicated.”

“A lot of things are.” He remarks with a note of humor.

“Do you understand what you’re getting yourself into?” Namira peers at him but does not push him away. Her gaze dims. “Do you understand this _mess?_ ”

“Not entirely. But I think I understand enough,” the Harbinger confesses softly. He presses a quick kiss against her temple before the man goes on. “You’re connected to a Daedric Prince—”

“Vilkas,” Namira states, but his frown makes her wait for him to finish.

“—You said—It was because the feast was interrupted? The ceremony Or—” He fights back the feeling of nausea that churns in his stomach. “They made you part of her. Part of the Ancient Darkness. They made you into her. So.” He clears his throat. “We got to find a way to undo that.”

He finds the aspect’s gaze dims. The man frowns.

“—You keep approaching it like,” Namira says softly, scrunching her brows to think of adequate words. “Like there’s a solution to _fix_ it. That’s not… It’s not…”

“I try to be hopeful.” The Harbinger offers. He doesn’t hold on when she shrugs her arms off. He can feel the need for a bit of space; Vilkas maintains a foot of distance but keeps his gaze sharp as he waits for her to continue.

“There isn’t a _solution._ That’s not possible. I’m not just connected to Namira. I _am_ Namira. A tiny fragment of her. She’s keeping me alive because she knows,” Namira grits her teeth. “One day—The Hagravens—The Forsworn who have given me so many chances—They can’t stop her from… usurping my will. Forcing me to submit.” The words make color drain from the aspect’s already ghoulish-white face. “You’re choosing to associate with someone who isn’t going to exist much longer.”

“Then we find a way to change that. We find a way to keep you here.” _With me,_ he almost adds. The man bites his lip. He hesitates before tacking on, “—You’ve cheated death before.”

“With the help of a radical faction of former-Stendarr vigilants.” Namira shakes her head.

“But you lived.”

“I don’t think that was living, Harbinger. That was… Surviving. Existing.” She turns away and crosses her arms.

She’s growing distant again. She’s building up walls. It’s what she does whenever she uses his title instead of his name: it’s a way to detach him from whatever her mind associates with the man, to alienate him under the pretense of _Harbinger_ rather than acknowledge him as _Vilkas._ The realization makes his chest ache.

“Please don’t run from me.” The Nord whispers softly. “Whatever it is—I can handle it. Here. At your side.”

“I’m not good at running away. I keep getting caught,” it is a dry remark, but the closest thing to humor he’s heard all day. The man relaxes a little and sucks in a deep breath while Namira continues. “When you found me… When I was… a Silver Hand… The Ancient Darkness had just started waking up. It began to stir, but it wasn’t—It wasn’t like _this._ ” Her eyes are on her right hand, where the glove has remained throughout not only the events of the past few hours but the day before, too. Namira pulls it off and holds up the mangled, rotten flesh of bone and rot.

Without the glove, the smell of decay starts to seep through the ger.

“It started with the Gildergreen. I saw its silver. I gave in. I touched it. I let it decay. And then—Then she—Then I wanted more. But I could’ve stopped then, I could’ve…” She shakes her head. “ _I_ killed a man with the rot in Fort Dunstad. The same one who… left a brand here,” for a moment her bony hand lays over her abdomen, hinting at the old scar tissue of a brand she received just before Ria and the Harbinger took her out of the Silver Hand commune. Vilkas tenses at the memory. Namira sees this and sighs. “It was all a mess, that night. All a mess. Tulle tried to get me out and…everything just… fell apart.”

“Your sister?” It is hard, but Vilkas vaguely recalls hearing the name spoken of in the distant past, when Rune, Farkas, and him discussed expectations of an anticipated fight beyond Fort Dunstad’s walls. They were so, so wrong.

Namira grimaces. “Not by blood. But by spirit. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven her for abandoning me in a cell ten years. I don’t think I ever will. But that doesn’t mean—It doesn’t mean I wanted her to die like that.”

“You said they killed her. I remember.” Vilkas bites his lip.

The aspect’s eyes churn from a deep evergreen to a vengeful, violent black. It is only a second, but the glimmer of rage isn’t missed. The woman’s hands clench into fists and she growls in a tone far, far from what should ever walk among the living, “ _They. Murdered. Her.”_

“Namira.” Vilkas frowns. He watches the woman’s shoulders slump; the anger washes away as quickly as it flooded her eyes.

“That day woke her up, Harbinger,” Namira whispers softly. “It woke up the darkness. And now she won’t sleep. She doesn’t need to sleep. She _knows_ what’s going to happen. It’s already begun. It’s already…”

He hears strangled noises and realizes the woman is weeping. He tries to reach out for her but she shrieks at him and recoils back like he is a snake. Vilkas stares into her wide eyes and puts his hands up; he backs away just in time to hear her hiss.

“Don’t—Not—Not now—Not now—If you touch it—You’ll meet the same end,” Namira’s voice is a garbled mess of worry and fear, distorted by things he can’t see, things he can’t fight against, and things he cannot shield her from. The woman does not calm until she puts her glove back on. She wrings her wrists and exhales shakily. “I have to be—Careful. Vilkas. _Careful._ I must be careful. She’s always in the back of my mind. She’s always waiting for a moment to interject. Always. Always…”

It is a repeating conflict: the vie for control against a goliath of a foe. In the Companions, Vilkas would never send one individual out against a behemoth. It is the reason for Shield-Siblings. It is necessary to have someone to watch ones back, especially against enemies larger than themselves. The Harbinger cannot fathom trying to ward off and parry a being of such magnitude, a Daedric _Prince_ , without help.

“By the Gods, praise the Forsworn,” he utters softly.

The words make Namira look up and stare at him. She wipes her eyes and looks at the ground. “They’ve been kind to me. Knowing what… This is. What could occur. They call me a guest, but they treat me like kin. I would never have survived this long without their help.”

“I’m glad you found them. The Forsworn—Vrechinn asked me to help the King in Rags. To commit a jailbreak. I said yes,” It seems as good a time as any to talk about what he’s agreed to. Vilkas rubs the back of his head and looks to the side. His long hair is a tangled mess he needs to sort out later.

Namira stares. “I thought the Companions weren’t political.”

“I’m starting to get the impression its impossible to be apolitical in these times.” The Harbinger sighs heavily.

“Why did you say yes?” The aspect faces him and lowers her arms to her sides.

She looks lovely in her outfit, the soft woven tunic almost as good on her as it is on the floor. Vilkas feels his face heat up and heat pool in his stomach. He clears his throat and tucks the thoughts away for another time. “—Vrechinn says she has information on Vinci—On _you_. I wanted to know it.”

“Well.” Namira tilts her head to one side. “She doesn’t know more than the rest of us. Not—Not more than me.”

“I think I’d like to stay on your friend’s good side,” the Harbinger comments. He pauses when he notices the woman’s stare isn’t solely on _him_ , but on his body, looking up and down in a way that seems more lost than anything else. “Namira—Are you okay?”

“You’re silver.” The woman remarks. She frowns. “They’re all silver. She’s crawling back into my head. It’s dawn. Why does it always have to be dawn?”

“Hey—I’m still here. I’m here. Promise.” He slowly reaches a hand for her shoulder. When she doesn’t move away or shrug him off, the man rests a hand there and squeezes her shoulder. “Your eyes are really green.”

“They are.” Namira says quietly. She looks pained. The woman clenches her eyes shut and grits her teeth. “Do you know why I picked them?”

“Tell me,” Vilkas says. He gently draws her to him and wraps arms around her waist.

She leans against him and sighs. “When Tulle first found me—Her, Krev, and Reeves—I didn’t… grasp what or who I was. I didn’t until… Truly, I didn’t until the Forsworn roots took me under their wings. But back then—Tulle told me I could be anyone I wanted. She told me to be someone strong. The strongest person I know—”

“Your brother?” Vilkas goes out on a limb and guesses.

He is surprised to hear her soft chuckle. It is a good sound, a rare one, but he strives to make it more common in coming days. The man peers down at her. Namira does not look up but she answers nonetheless. “—At the time. Yeah. I wanted to be someone strong. So… I was… Vinci.”

“Vinci.” The man repeats the name.

“But he’s not the strongest person I know. Not anymore. He’s… He’s dead, Vilkas. He died a long time ago. Remembering what Tulle asked of me… Of how she and I met… It helped me accept that. It helped me accept Vinci’s death.” Her hands trail up his torso, feeling out the man’s muscles along his torso all the way up his neck. She stops at his jawline and runs a gloved hand down to his chin. “If someone asked me know who I thought was the strongest—Of everyone I’ve known over the years—I would definitely say Farkas.”

“What?” Vilkas sputters. He does not mean to exclaim it, but the answer throws him for a loop. “Namira— _Vinci_ —That’s not—Farkas? _Farkas?_ You’ve known the _Dragonborn_ —And yourself—And you go with my brother—”

When she starts to laugh, the man exhales sharply. He feels foolish for taking her at her word when clearly— _It’s a joke. Rune is the obvious answer. Or herself. She’s strong, too. She’s stronger than most people._

“Sorry,” the aspect utters softly after she calms. She rests her head against him. “I thought it was funny.”

“I’m glad,” Vilkas mumbles under breath. He leans down to kiss her head. “—If you went with my brother over Rune—I’m not sure we could be friends.”

“Are we friends?” It is spoken seriously, enough that the man starts to question if she really doubts him and his feelings.

The Harbinger bites his lip. “I don’t see why we aren’t. Or—Can’t be. If that’s what you want.”

“I want you,” Namira mumbles against his shirt. “You make me feel safe.”

He cannot resist the smile that comes over him. He holds in a delighted sigh that would most definitely turn into overjoyed laughter if given the chance. The Harbinger whispers softly to her, “You can have me as many times as you want. As a… friend. And… whatever else you want me as.”

“That entails a lot of things.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” he replies.

The ger’s door knocks briskly. A moment later, it swings open and the mess of playful brown curls and mischief-filled eyes follows. Kaie’s gaze lands on the two entwined individuals and she freezes on the spot. The woman slaps her face with her palm and sighs. “By the ancient ones… Namira. What are you doing? We’re leaving for Markarth and you have nothing packed! _Nothing!_ You aren’t even in your armor!”

“We’re leaving for Markarth?” The aspect blurts out. “I’m sorry—I forgot—”

“Trust me, I don’t need to know the details of whatever it is went on during the night. That’s not important. What _is_ important’s that we got a hefty trip ahead of us. I asked Ohdon to get Slush ready,” Kaie pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “I mean. I guess you don’t _need_ to come with us. Do ya plan to go with someone else? We can meet up later after Harbinger here busts the King out of Cidna Mine.”

“No,” Namira says quickly. The aspect separates from Vilkas and looks to the side. “I’d prefer to travel with you. I want to ensure King Madanach gets out of Markarth alive. And—I don’t want to go to the tombs by myself.”

 _Tombs?_ The Harbinger does not hide his bewilderment. Vilkas frowns at the aspect. “Why are—”

“I’m not dealing with this. You lot hurry up or I’ll drag you out by the ears. Harbinger—Your friends are about to leave,” Kaie’s remark is curt and quick, as if her exit when she pulls the ger door shut behind her.

It is hard to resist the urge to wrap Namira up in his arms now that the two are alone again. Vilkas holds off on the desire. He still has questions, and she needs to pack. The man frowns and looks around the messy ger before turning to Namira. “—Do you need help getting’ ready?”

“You don’t know what I bring,” the aspect blinks at him.

“Well. You have a bag,” Vilkas muses aloud. He picks up the pack and holds it out to her. The Harbinger cracks a light smile when she takes it. It makes him happy to see the green eyes soften. He meets Namira’s gaze with his gentle brown one. The man looks around the ger floor. “Tell me what you need—I’ll get it. You need clothes, yeah? A waterskin. Maybe two.”

He doesn’t stop there. The man first helps her gather her equipment, then he and Namira fix the furniture in the ger and make the bed. He helps her sort between clean and dirty linens, fold furs and put them in a chest, and pry out silver-steel daggers from different walls and the floor. The man counts seven daggers. When he hands over the seventh one, his hand lingers on Namira’s gloved one. He frowns at her. She blinks. “Are you okay?”

“You kept a lot of these,” the Harbinger pauses. “Why was that?”

“Namira kept a few of them from Dunstad,” Namira states matter-of-factly. She draws the dagger from him and tucks it into her bag. The aspect smiles faintly. “And—I made a couple on my own.”

“You can smith—Oh. You told me that already,” Vilkas rubs the back of his head. “Your armor? Is that really something you made?”

“Mm,” she sounds proud of the fact. “It took eight months. The enchantments took a year to finish. It’s made to absorb the effects of certain magic. I have to thank the Hagravens for that; Maroisa’s magic—And most magic in general—It’s beyond me.”

“You smithed your own set of armor, Vinci.” The Harbinger blurts out the words.

Namira’s gaze dims. The woman looks to the side. “Namira.”

“Sorry,” Vilkas frowns. “I’m—I’m impressed. I remember hearing about you having a job at Warmaiden’s. I didn’t realize how serious you were about it.”

The woman peers at him. She reaches out a gloved hand to touch his arm. “How’s Adrianne doing? I never had the chance to thank her for her kindness.”

“She and her husband been doing well. Business remains active with the war. There’s no shortage of demand for weapons and ammunition,” Vilkas answers. He pauses. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you want me to get you breakfast?”

“I can get it myself. But… thank you,” Her soft smile is lovely enough to linger on. Her gaze shifts off him; she turns and sets the pack on her cot, rummaging briefly through the contents and listing things under her breath. “…two waterskins, need to replace dry rations… Longsword’s with my armor… Map… Climbing gear…”

Vilkas can’t resist striding to her side and peering over her shoulder from behind. The man watches curiously. The aspect of Namira is nothing if not thorough: she goes down a mental list and recites each thing neatly, double-checking it to ensure it is in its place before moving on. He finds his thoughts lazily drift without reason or rhyme; he simply finds enjoyment in watching her exist and _be_. She truly means the world to him. He wants her to be happy. Absentmindedly, the man leans closer and lets a hand run down the woman’s arm. He hears her halt in her words. The soft exhale that follows is music to his ears.

“Vilkas,” the voice reveals restraint. Namira leans into his touch and whispers softly. “We aren’t… We aren’t alone.”

It takes him a moment to register what she means. The man’s face turns crimson but neither individual moves away. The man shudders when his groin shifts against the woman’s hips. “Right. Right. Right. I—Sorry—”

“No—I—I just,” the woman hiccups. “Namira’s here. In my head. I can feel her. She’s… privy to everything.”

The Daedric Prince watches them. Vilkas is not sure if he is more disgusted or outraged by the idea that the Lady of Rot oversteps boundaries. Another part of him is spiteful; he can feel his own pettiness bubble in his stomach at the idea of trying to demonstrate just why the Prince needs to cease violating such a beautiful and intimate moment. The man’s hands snake around Namira’s waist; he finds the flesh of her neck waiting for his lips. He plants a long, needy kiss there before stating quietly. “Maybe—We should give her a show. Reason to reconsider _watching_.”

“Right here?” Namira struggles to speak when the man’s lips return to her neck. She moans aloud. “Don’t—Don’t mess up the cot—We just made that.”

“I won’t.” Vilkas gives her his word. “Do you want to, then? Before—The Forsworn shaman comes back—Interrupts—Again—”

“Her name is Kaie,” Namira ceases talking and melts against him when he begins to suck a sweet spot in the crook of her neck. She exhales sharply when the man’s hands reach for her chest. Vilkas takes time massaging her torso. He nips at the exposed skin of her collar and tenderly sucks the spot after. Namira begins to pant. She tries to reach back and grab him, but he gently brushes her away.

“—Relax,” he tells her softly. “I know—I know you got lots on your mind. Let me take care of you.”

There isn’t enough time to take care of her in all the ways he wants. He decides to stick to something simple and mutually pleasing. The man’s hands drop to Namira’s waist and he effortlessly tugs her breeches and under garments down. His hands slowly rub her hips and cup her ass. The moans he receives are well worth the strain of his growing erection. He lowers a hand to her groin and seeks out her clit. The tiny bundle of nerves is caressed until Namira doubles over on the bed, a mess of sweat and syllables of his name. When she begins to plead with him, Vilkas sticks a finger in her. She whimpers and presses her hips back. He retracts the digit and pulls his breeches and garments down enough to free himself. The man doesn’t bother fully undressing; he shifts closer to the woman and grinds the tip against her vulva.

Namira’s hands clenches the cot’s furs and blankets. She clenches her eyes shut and shudders against him. “Vilkas… Vilkas…”

“The best part of this—It’s being with you,” Vilkas whispers. He rolls his hips forward and enters her in one motion. Her legs tremble and spasm from the movement. She draws out a long, sharp breath as the man penetrates her and sheathes himself in her warmth. Vilkas’s hands grab the woman’s hips and he uses the grip to get momentum as he begins to thrust. The need to be with and to copulate with the woman devours him; for all the talk about Namira’s thoughts, it is Vilkas who loses himself in the heat and pleasure. The man grows in volume until his cries are heaves and growls, and his skin smacks vigorously against the aspect he’s fallen for.

He is no werewolf, but every inch of Nord comes bubbling out of him in a flurry of passion as he draws near release. He begins to whimper and hold the woman tighter. He feels her contract around him and take him for all he’s worth. When his legs give, it is all he can do to bend her over the bed and cling to her half-dressed. His hands seek out hers and he lays his over hers and squeezes them until she whines back. When he cannot hold it in any longer, when the Harbinger has poured every last ounce of energy into embedding adoration and longing inside the woman, Vilkas suddenly feels a climax take him. He wraps himself over Namira’s form and holds her tightly to the bed. She cries out his name in a tone that makes him seize her skin with his lips. He does not stop kissing her neck, her chin, and her collarbone until her orgasm passes and her muscles release him.

She pants heavily even after he draws out of her. The aspect of Namira looks up at him from the side, watching the man clean himself up and right his clothes. It takes a moment for her to stand and fix her attire. Her face carries a deep crimson blush. Vilkas stares at her a long moment before he takes her face in his hands and kisses her deeply.

“—I really like you.” The man mumbles. He can hear his own nervousness.

It brings only relief to see the woman’s lips turn up into a smile. She leans over and kisses him in return, “I like you too.”

“Do you ever feel silly? When I—When one of us—Says these kinds of things?” It is a hesitant question.

Namira frowns at him. “No. Maybe a little? Sometimes? But—But—Why does that matter? Are you asking because of our age? Vilkas—”

He kisses her before she finishes the sentence. She’s right. He is only forty, but even if he was fifty, how the two act around each other in the equivalent to a bedchamber is not important as long as the two are safe and happy. He can feel silly all he wants for being a man in his forties with needs for reassurance; it does not change how much he adores her and wants to convey that. She must understand some of the sentiment, because Vilkas finds her lips are just as responsive now as they were a moment ago. He smiles against her and wraps his arms around her waist.

She draws back before the two have another chance to get caught up in each other. “Vilkas—Vilkas.”

“Yeah. Yeah?” He breathes. He presses his forehead against hers and sighs softly. He wants nothing more than to tear off both their clothes and show her how badly he wants her, or how much he _needs_ her. He has so much love to give and he wants to give it to her.

“I think I crushed a waterskin in my bag,” the words bring an amused smile to the man’s face. He peers at Namira, who looks to the side and fidgets. “—I need a new one.”

“Then we can get you a new one. We can, right?” He frowns at her. “Do the Forsworn have extras?”

“Wh—Of course they do. They’re always prepared for travel.” Namira stares at him. “Do you have _your_ things packed, Vilkas?”

“I left my bag in a cave the night we met.” The Harbinger confesses. He grunts. “Honestly, I ain’t got much besides my armor and sword right now.”

“Then let’s get you ready.” Namira pulls her pack on over one shoulder. She links an arm with his and tugs him to the door. “Before Kaie runs in and starts asking questions. She’s Vrechinn’s daughter, after all.”

“You know—” Vilkas begins, but the man pauses when the aspect pulls him out of her ger. She lets go of him and crosses her arms. The man stares at her and squints. “You never told me why you’re going to tombs. Why—Why are you going to tombs, Vinci? Namira! Namira, sorry.”

Namira looks to the side. “Well… Not all of them are tombs, really. Some are closer to cliffs. But I need to investigate them. A couple were used in the past as gathering places for cults of Namira. I’m hoping maybe—Maybe I can learn something to delay her. To delay the progression of… this.” She looks at her glove-covered hand and frowns. “Ohdon will go with me. I won’t be alone, if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s three places I need to look at. They’re each by Markarth—So—You won’t be far away.”

The words mainly pass in and out of the Harbinger’s ears. Vilkas bites his lip. “…You aren’t actually coming to Markarth. Then.”

“I’m not. I can’t. There’s rumors of vigilant activities in the area. Activities that are there because of other rumors of cult worship in the area. And guess whose cult it is…” Namira holds her head in her hands and grimaces. “Tulle once went on and on about keeping everyone away from me, and me from everyone else. I don’t know the significance about it, but I think it has something to do with being an aspect. I don’t think good things will follow if I catch a cult’s attention.”

It is something he never considered. Vilkas falls silent and watches her. He sees the brief glimpse of fear passing through her lovely green eyes. _You’re scared._

“Do you want me to come with you?” The man offers. He bites his lip at the hesitation that follows.

“No,” Namira shakes her head. “I’m worried it could… It could trigger something nasty, Vilkas. In you. In me. I’m going because I need to, not because I want to. I don’t want you to go there and see something that turns you into a mess like me.”

“You aren’t a mess.”

“Sometimes I am.” Her voice dips into a low tone.

He doesn’t care others are around or that others stare. Vilkas draws the woman into his arms and kisses her gently, softly, hungrily, and with every single emotion and feeling in-between. He steals the air from her lungs in the long, greedy moment of connection. He sighs as he breaks apart. He can feel stares, but he does not care; his only concern is the woman next to him. She has a soft gaze full of warmth for him and it takes everything in his power not to pull her back into the ger behind the two and show her how much it means to him.

His stomach takes initiative and growls before either of the two can do or say anything more. Vilkas feels himself flush pink in embarrassment. He clears his throat and looks to the side. “…Well. Did you—Do you still want food?”

“I think you want it more,” the aspect’s voice is amused. She takes one of his hands in her own and pulls him toward the wooden lift attached to one side of Karthspire’s lowest level. Namira looks over her shoulder as she goes. “We’ll eat—Then we’ll pack something for you—Then I’ll put on my armor. Okay?”

“Alright,” The Harbinger smiles faintly. “You lead. I’ll follow.”


	33. (smut) for a miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the road to markarth is peaceful; the perils vilkas faces comes not from skyrim but from the one closest to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (smut confetti)
> 
> school has started, my work hours have changed, and i am also in the middle of volunteer work on the side so i'm altering the plot i had in mind to wrap things up a bit quicker. :0 i hope the rest is still enjoyable. thanks for sticking with me, everyone (heart)

“Do you need help with that?” Vilkas asks on the second evening of travel from Karthspire. The man holds a bundle of sticks and branches in his arms while he peers at Namira. The latter shakes her head, hidden behind her ebony helmet, and carefully unsaddles the black horse called _Slush._

Apparently, it is named after her late sister’s late horse. Vilkas doesn’t question it further.

“I’m good, thank you,” Namira puts the saddle on the ground. She picks up a brush and turns to the horse, who stomps a foot impatiently. The aspect holds her hands up. “Hey—Hey—Don’t do that, Slush. I need my toes.”

“You’d regrow them anyways,” Kaie calls from the side. The woman strides to the duo and nonchalantly wraps an arm around Vilkas’s shoulder. Her brown eyes are full of mischief, “Nice work on the stick. Set ‘em up in a nice pile and we can get a fire going, then supper.”

Vilkas nods. “Aye.”

“Do we have anything to eat besides dry rations?” The words come softly, Namira speaking between gentle brushing along Slush’s pelt.

“Eh.” Kaie answers. She shrugs. “We can figure it out then. Fire first. We’re still a couple days from Markarth. Got to keep warm! Besides, Ohdon will probably have found a rabbit or something by the time he gets back. Man’s a good hunter. Scavenger. Briarheart.”

The firewood takes few minutes to arrange. Afterward, Kaie waves Vilkas off and takes over the job of making fire. The shaman casts a small flames spell to start, then she begins to blow on the tiny fire until it grows to the point of burning thicker chunks of wood. Kaie grins ear-to-ear and nods vigorously when a fire finally bobs and weaves on its own. She sits back on a rock and looks around. By this point, Namira has finished brushing Slush and moved on to the next horse. Vilkas stands near her with an offer to help, but the aspect is stubborn at times.

Ohdon returns before dusk with a fox in hand. The Briarheart has the dead animal cradled in his arms, carried with utmost respect. While Vilkas looks on, the man carefully skins the body and guts it. Ohdon takes along wooden stick, skewers the chunks of fox meat in multiple areas, and sticks it in the ground at an angle to hang it over the flames. The man huffs and flops on a rock to rest when done, but not before declaring. “We eat like royalty tonight!”

“Nice work!” Kaie applauds him.

The mood is pleasant and merry throughout the four’s supper.

For shelter that evening, the Forsworn make Vilkas stand back and watch while they build two temporary shelters of bent branches, pine needles, and leaves. The man crosses his arms and looks from Kaie to Ohdon when the latter two are finished with the first and started on a second, “—Is that necessary? For… all of us.”

“No, we only need two. Not four.” Kaie huffs.

Vilkas slowly nods, contemplative. “The Briarheart with me, then—”

“Actually, I already decided I’m sharing with Ohdon. You stink and I don’t want Namira’s glove to stick and rot me into Oblivion on accident,” it is spoken joking, but Vilkas frowns at Kaie all the same. She shrugs and picks up new, thin branches to bend into shapes and work into an existing structure.

“Is it okay?” Namira’s voice comes from the side. Vilkas frowns and peers at her; she sounds hesitant. “If you shared with me tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” The Harbinger frowns. Instinctively he moves to the woman’s side; ebony armor be damned, he wraps his arms around the woman’s waist regardless and holds her close. She leans against his grasp. The man smiles faintly to himself.

“I worry, sometimes, if I am too much a burden on you, Vilkas, if I annoy you,” Namira sighs against him. She pauses when he draws back.

The Harbinger’s hands rise and he gently pulls her helmet off. His eyes soften at the sight of her own dark green ones. He leans down and takes her lips in his own, pressing one full of all the adoration he embodies in that second. Though he draws back, his smile only grows. He enjoys the subtlety of a blush emerging on Namira’s face, the warmth and softness in her gaze for _him_ , and the way she presses against him. The second kiss is much more needy but just as desperate for connection and affection.

“Okay!” Kaie’s voice interrupts the two. She catches sight of the two and snorts. “C’mon, can’t you wait until we’re done?”

“We are done.” Ohdon chimes in from the side.

The two have done it: a nigh-identical shelter is erect in front of him. Vilkas looks from the first to the second. He opts to ignore Kaie’s comments and focus solely on the Briarheart. He clears his throat and nods at Ohdon, “I admire your work, Briarheart Ohdon. My Companions prefer a bedroll on the ground than to go through the effort of… This.”

“Your Companions sound lazy,” Kaie chortles to herself, hand over mouth. “Besides! This _is_ just a place to shove bedrolls on the ground. But it’s spaced out more, and we’re protected if it rains. I think it’s pretty cozy considering what the forecast for tomorrow might be like.”

“Rain again?” Namira visibly grimaces. She takes her helmet back from Vilkas.

The Harbinger watches her put it on with a frown.

“Lot’s of rain.” Kaie says.

“This’ll make expediting through the tombs difficult.” Namira rubs the back of her helmet.

“You don’t,” Vilkas blurts out before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to go alone, Namira. You don’t have to split off from us.”

“I’ll have Ohdon with me—”

“That’s not what I meant,” the Harbinger interrupts her. Vilkas frowns. “Come to Markarth. We can all go to the tombs after.”

“…I’ll think about it.” Namira looks to the side.

That evening, under a sky of clouds and hints at summer rain, Namira and Vilkas set up their bed rolls adjacent one another. Namira helps Vilkas out of his armor and makes a point to look away when he’s changing. The Harbinger bites his lip; it isn’t like she has not seen him naked before. The behavior makes him worry she isn’t comfortable with him. He waits until he is done changing before emerging out of the two’s shelter and finding her against a tree nearby. The man frowns. “Namira?”

“Mm?” The aspect looks up.

“Are you…” Vilkas begins but words escape him. He stares intensely at her without a clue what to say while Namira slowly drops her arms to her sides.

“Am I what?” Namira sounds concerned and confused. She pulls off her helmet and sets it by a stack of things to be moved into the shelter for the evening.

“You comfortable with this? This—This set-up. Between… us.” Vilkas gestures at the air. He doesn’t fight the heat in his cheeks. “If you aren’t—We can—Stop it—Or—”

A wave of euphoric bliss washes over him when she walks to his side and kisses him deeply. The man has no qualms with her method of communication. His hands go to her face and he cradles her jawline. Vilkas groans softly when she slowly bites down on his lower lip. He presses her against a particularly large tree trunk and lets his tongue press forward and explore. She doesn’t stop him; she opens her mouth and invites him in. The permission is intoxicating. He suddenly feels antsy, heated, and full of lust like never before. He wants to guide her into not just sex but making love.

One hand goes to clasps in the woman’s armor while his free hand curls in her hair. Vilkas groans again; his hands shift positions and his grip tightens on the aspect’s hip. He doesn’t bother to think about what the Forsworn might think; he’s positive he is in love with the woman and he yearns to prove it to everyone and everything, mortal and Daedric alike. He steals her lips again, again, again, while she gasps against him and wiggles out of hip and leg guards. Vilkas helps pull off pauldrons and her chest piece. He feels heat in his abdomen stir when he catches sight of Namira out of her armor. She isn’t nude, but the thin clothes she wears beneath the suit of armor is enough to give the impression. The man can’t help but stare at her while his heart thuds loudly in his ears.

She frowns and catches his gaze. “Vilkas? Something wrong? We don’t…”

Whatever she says, it sputters out when Kaie dips around a corner of the shelter and huffs at the two. “You know—You two aren’t quiet.”

Namira’s entire face turns crimson and she squawks at the Forsworn. Vilkas feels his own cheeks burn furiously. He walks to Namira and pulls her into his arms. Kaie shakes her head and mumbles under her breath as she returns to her post at the fire.

“She… has a point,” Vilkas states softly, dipping near the aspect’s ear to whisper. “If you want—Tonight—We could just… Relax. Talk. Kiss.” He gives her a smile. He can get over his erection in time. 

The aspect meets his gaze. Her eyes soften. “Can you hold me under the blankets?”

“Mm,” the man hums in delight when Namira runs a hand through his long, dark-brown hair. She tilts her head at him and draws back. He raises a brow. “What?”

“You’re very handsome,” Namira blushes faintly at her own words. “I haven’t—Met anyone like you.”

“Besides my brother.”

“Besides Farkas.” The aspect almost laughs. Her happy eyes make Vilkas’s heart soar. When she draws away to pick up bedrolls and take them to the two’s quaint shelter, he follows behind and helps. They spread out one outstretched bedroll across pine needles and use heavy rocks to weigh it in place. A second bedroll is unfolded to the point it is less a roll and moreso a blanket like the first. Vilkas wraps it around Namira and him and lays down.

It is always surreal to look over and see her there, next to him. Whether it be with a sheen of sweaty sex glistening across her skin or the soft, still, sleepy figure curled up into his torso, he revels in it. The Harbinger can’t help but lean forward and plant a gentle kiss along Namira’s lips. The warmth in her eyes when he draws back matches his own. The atmosphere feels utterly serene and peaceful; the outside sky is dark and night descends with force, yet even the shadows look like they know their place and nothing seems out of order.

“Hey,” Namira calls softly. Her hair hasn’t begun growing back in yet; Vilkas doesn’t care.

He offers a smile. “Hey, you.”

His brows scrunch when the woman holds a finger to her lips before her hand disappears back under the blanket of a bedroll.

“Namira… What are…” The man begins in a whisper. He suddenly throws his head back and clenches his mouth shut. A faint hiss still trickles out. He can’t stop the noise; the feeling of her hands on his groin is too warm and pleasurable and _exciting_ for him not to gasp and shudder. He struggles not to close his eyes, instead seeking out the soft evergreen gaze of the woman next to him. When her hands disappear beneath the waistband of his breeches and she begins to feel out _all_ of him underneath, it becomes apparent what the woman meant by the gesture.

Vilkas chokes back the needy moan that almost spills from his lips. He clamps a hand over his own mouth and stares at Namira’s face. She has a small gleam of mischief, of something he no doubts she picked up from the Forsworn shaman. He almost shouts praises to Kaie right then and there when the woman begins to massage his entire shaft. Her gloved hand provides texture and friction while her non-gloved hand traces and teases the head of his penis. The man whines against his hand and begins to rock his hips into her grasp. He pants and heaves while the aspect methodically slows down or speeds up.

Then Namira climbs under the blanket, and Vilkas finds himself at a loss of words. His cry is muffled but weak for her when warm lips engulf his tip. His toes curl and his back arches into the woman’s mouth. As she begins to suck, his eyes clench shut and he trembles. It is only a few minutes before the man feels himself on the precipice of climax. He tries to say something, but the orgasm crashes into him and causes him to whimper and heave in unimaginable bliss. He ejaculates in the woman’s mouth. The man tries to offer an apology but he can only mumble incoherently and plead the Gods do not take him yet.

She sucks him until he’s dry. She swallows all he leaves.

Vilkas collapses against the bed and breathes heavily when Namira peeks her head out of the blankets. The man feels incredibly vulnerable at that moment, a speechless mess of orgasm all by her touch.

“Was that okay?” She asks softly.

Vilkas stares. His gaze softens. He exhales sharply and answers, “—So much better than okay.”

“I don’t think they heard us.” Namira plops next to him and rolls over. She seems content with how things have gone.

Vilkas is not content with letting her lay there so perfectly when she just turned him into a total catastrophe of a man weak for her and her alone. He drapes an arm over her initially. The man says softly. “—Don’t let them hear you.”

His lips are on her neck before she can react. The woman sighs in delight. “Vilkas…”

“You have to be quiet,” the Harbinger kisses her neck. His hands slowly dip down the curve of her body. They go to her breeches’ wasteband. Namira takes a deep breath when the Companion pulls her trousers and undergarments off. Vilkas smiles to himself at the soft inhale Namira gives when the former’s fingers brush her groin and feel wetness. Vilkas inches to one of Namira’s ears. “You enjoy hearing me _need_ you?”

The woman whimpers. She gasps and writhes when Vilkas presses the end of a finger into her.

Vilkas sinks his teeth into the woman’s neck while his finger pushes inside her. He begins to thrust the digit vigorously while he alternates between light, gentle touches, and marks of passion. He can hear her cry out his name behind her hands muffling her own mouth. He smiles against her skin and buries himself in finding the right pace to make her body spasm under his finger. It isn’t long before Namira is flush against him, grinding weakly against his hand while gasping and shaking from his lips. Vilkas feels his shaft harden. He pulls back his head and flushes at the cry of need. She shakes with impatience and the desire to connect. Vilkas pulls down his trousers and rubs his shaft against the woman’s vulva.

He begins to thrust between her legs—never quite entering but teasing the area. Her breath hitches and she shoves her hips into his groin to no avail. Vilkas puts a hand on her hip to stop her. He waits until she looks back before the man surges forward and claims her lips with his own. He growls softly against the woman as he lines the head of his member up with her body and invades inside. She is hot and clinging and perfect as perfect can be. She is a mess of trembles beneath his fingers and repeats of his name. She is capable of taking his entire length; the Nord slowly presses himself into her and feels out every inch as she engulfs him. Vilkas hisses softly and nuzzles the woman’s neck. He kisses her neck, her ear, and her collar as he hips bump into hers and he feels her clamp down on him.

“…Vilkas…” She whines.

“Don’t let them hear you—” Vilkas breathes. His hips smack into the woman’s and he starts to thrust into her from behind, lifting one of her legs to get better access. Every roll of his pelvis causes hers to lock with his. He hears the woman gasp loudly as he drags his length out just to penetrate her again. She arches her back and presses her hips into his groin while he continues to pump. Every action adds to the heat, builds to the pressure simmering inside himself. He grabs hold of her hips and begins to jerk her unto him more and more as pleasure looms just beyond a cliff face. He hears her soft cries and pants as the edge of the cliff approaches. He takes the leap off it in a flurry of agonizing thrusts and desperate smacking of skin.

He lets go of her hips and presses a kiss into her nape. She pants as he ejaculates into her body, expressing every bit of warmth he himself feels. Her breathy moan makes him glow with pride, but it only lasts a minute before he pauses.

“Namira?” The man asks softly. “Did you finish?”

“No.” She whispers back.

He keeps himself inside her. The man holds her in place and reaches around to rub the woman’s clit. He slowly thrusts a semi-flaccid penis into her while stimulating the woman’s clit with three fingers. Namira whimpers and begins to pant again. The noises bring new life to Vilkas’s sore groin. He groans and begins to pump more and more, until he is sloppily thrusting into her while tenderly rubbing her clit. For all the words offered, for all the times he said it, neither Vilkas nor Namira can keep their voice down when an orgasm crashes upon the two. Vilkas lets out a garbled, weak cry while Namira throws her head back and screams in ecstasy.

The Harbinger shakes as he draws back and pulls out. His entire body feels hypersensitive. He inhales deeply when Namira turns to face him. He only looks at her once before he begins stealing kisses and biting her lip. She exhales against him. He draws back and offers her the gentlest smile he muster, utterly infatuated by all she is and what she means to him.

“I’m falling in love with you,” the Harbinger whispers softly. “You’re amazing, Namira.”

But the words do not seem to help. They make the woman’s eyes widen. It isn’t the reaction he wants or expects and in a second all the good feelings crunch into paper balls his spirit throws away. He can feel her inch away from him, but it feels like _miles_. The man stares at Namira in confusion until the latter rolls over, back to him. She wriggles and pulls her breeches up. Her words only add to his confusion, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“What?” Vilkas feels his heart drop. “Namira… Vinci, please—Whatever it is—"

“I’m going to die soon,” the woman whispers. She curls up into a ball. “I’m not going to the tombs to find… a way to help me, Vilkas.”

He can’t think of words to say. The man stiffly rights his breeches, mess in the bed roll be damned. He feels self-conscious and confused, concerned and worried, and he has a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that things are about to get much worse. Vilkas tries to think of something to say, but he can only offer garbled syllables with how tongue-tied he feels at that moment. His eyes begin to water in frustration and fear. He’s scared of losing her again. He can only take so much before his spirit bends and snaps to pieces.

“…When the Forsworn first found me… Maroisa’s first ritual… The rot didn’t appear for months. _Months,_ Vilkas. And now—Now—Less than a day after the Hagravens intervene—It was already starting to come back at Karthspire,” she buries her face in her hands and begins to sob. “It’s become resistant! It’s taking over! I can’t stop it! I have to—I need—”

She doesn’t shove him away when he reaches for her and wraps arms around her. He clenches his eyes shut and holds her through the tears, both hers and his own. The man struggles to process everything happening, everything said, but it slowly dawns on him what she means.

“We’ll find a way to fix it,” he whispers.

He’s horrified to hear her voice crack as she whispers back. “—You can’t—No mortal can—Stop—A Prince.”

“I’m not letting her have you,” his grip tightens. He buries his head in the crook of her neck and breathes in her scent. She grabs hold of his shirt and clings to him. Vilkas feels her tremble, only to realize a second later that he is the one trembling and shaking worse than a leaf come autumn. He begins to cry silently, “Not you—Not you.”

“I’m looking for a burial chamber,” the woman finally tells him.

The man draws back enough to look her in the eye. He stiffens when a hand rises and she tucks hair behind one ear. “Why?”

“To bury me in,” Namira shuts her eyes. She’s run out of tears to shed. “To keep—Namira—From the world.”

“Fuck,” the Harbinger curses. “Leilani—We got to keep trying—We have to—There’s another way, there must be, there must—”

He feels her still against him. The twist of emotions hanging in the air hits him like a knife to the gut when Namira tears his hand off her and shoves him back. Vilkas doesn’t resist; he goes sprawling from the surprising amount of force. He lifts his head and stares at Namira. She throws the blanket at him and snaps. _“I’m Namira! I’m the aspect of Namira!_ I’m not…” Her shoulders slump. “I’m not Leilani Whitemane, Vilkas. _Harbinger._ I’m not… I never was.”

“No,” Vilkas stares. “No—I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t have to believe it for it to be true!” The woman leaps to her feet and shouts the words at the sky, letting her voice spur sleeping birds awake and causing them to flee in a volley of dark wings and shapes overhead. She sways and clutches her head in her hands. “Oblivion, why did we ever start this nonsense? Why did I ever go along with it? _Why did I ever care?_ ”

It stings more than the man cares to admit. He makes himself rise to his feet anyways, bewildered and lost on what runs through the woman’s head. “Calm down—"

Her head snaps at him and she suddenly begins to seethe. “Not until you get it! Until you _understand_ , Harbinger! Companion! Your friend is dead! Your affection is for her! And I’m _not,_ and I can never be, Leilani Whitemane, Vinci, the child of darkness when _I am the darkness! I’m the Prince! I’m responsible for everything you suffered through! Those were my followers! The monsters in masks! I hurt you!_ And I won’t—I won’t,” she shakes her head. Her fists clench. “I won’t let me hurt you again, Harbinger. I won’t pretend I’m someone I am not.”

A spark of purple conjuration magic flashes and a great sphere suddenly appears in the air. A moment later, an atronach of a crackling thunderstorm drops to the ground. Kaie growls as she rounds the corner. “What in _Karthspire_ is wrong with you two?! I thought ya’ll having sex sucked to listen to but here I am trying to mind my own damn business and you two freak the fuck out on each other?! By the ancient ones, relationships disgust me! Sort yourselves out!”

“Tomorrow we’re splitting ways.” Namira retrieves her armor and begins putting it on. Her voice is cold and stubborn. “I’m going to the tombs. You, Ohdon, and the Harbinger go to Markarth.”

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” Kaie begins to protest. She throws her hands in the air. “You need someone to look out for you!”

“And you have, and you and him have done so much more for me than I can ever thank you for,” Namira’s voice becomes muffled once she puts her helmet on. “But you can’t— _I_ need to go alone. I’ve run out of time, Kaie.”

“She’s right.” Ohdon’s voice drifts through the camp. “I saw in Karthspire—We all saw in Karthspire. Maroisa’s magic cannot keep it back any longer. Namira’s aspect is at the end of her journey.”

 _“Enough!”_ Vilkas shouts at the sky.

So help him, he cannot bear to lose her again. It hurts too much to think about.

The man trembles as he stares at Namira. He tries to imagine her face beyond the helmet, with her soft skin and tantalizing lips and beautiful green eyes, but he cannot. He can only picture the rotten skull in his head. He shakes. “Vinci. You don’t… By Mara, you don’t need to do this! Please.”

Namira’s gaze dims. She averts her eyes. “Vinci died a long time ago. Then Leilani died, a time of a time ago. Now it’s my turn. I won’t,” she grits her teeth and shuts her eyes. “I won’t risk—Namira getting—Because of this—Absurd—Idea—I could ever be anyone but a wretched, rotten _thing!”_

Vilkas’s face drains of color. He can hear the pain in her voice, the strain of deep emotions drilling into her. “You don’t want to do it.”

“Why would I want to do it? Why would anyone want to do it? I don’t want to die,” the words hurt his ears to hear, just as soft and messy as he is inside. Namira’s voice blares out. “—I have to! I have to, Vilkas! I have to _try_ and keep her away! I have to keep her away from you! You told me,” her breath hitches and she points one gauntlet’s finger at him. “You told me—You told me to be selfish. And all of this—This—Pretending—Things could end up happy—That was me being selfish, Vilkas. That was me trying to accept a lie. And it didn’t work. It isn’t true. I’m still the rot, the darkness. I’m becoming her and she’s encompassing me.”

The Harbinger’s brown eyes glaze over. His mouth hangs ajar in shock. He wants so badly for it all to be a bad dream, for what was a _beautiful_ evening to return with Namira wrapped up in his arms after the two passionately make love. But his brain clicks on. His eyes water and tears fall freely down his cheeks. His long hair hangs on and off his shoulders; it was better when her hands where in his hair, when her lips were on his, when the two were connected and together and it felt like nothing in the world could ever get either of them. _But that was… That was…_

“I don’t want to be selfish anymore. But I am,” Namira’s voice interrupts the man’s thoughts. The ebony-armored aspect turns away. “Because I’m going to ask Kaie and Ohdon here to ensure you go to Markarth and help their king—”

“No.”

“And I’m going to find a tomb to,” Namira shakes. “To bury myself in.”

“Namira. Please!” Vilkas raises his voice. He tries to step forward but Kaie’s storm atronach extends an arm between the two. The man finds himself begging and pleading. “Vinci! Vinci! _Leilani!”_

“That’s not my name,” the aspect states softly. “I don’t know if I ever had one. But that’s my problem, Vilkas. I have a lot of problems. Being selfish is one of them. But I’m going to make more selfish decisions, and I’m going to make sure you live.”

He can’t let her throw herself to wolves. The man shoves the storm atronach to the side and ducks under its swing. Kaie barks out a command but it is the Briarheart who cuts in before he can get to the aspect. Contrary to Namira, Ohdon has _zero_ issues pulling a dagger and shoving it against Vilkas’s neck. The Harbinger’s breath catches in his throat and he freezes immediately, though not before beads of blood begin to drop from the knife scratching his flesh. He is through being tough and gritty; the man feels utter rawness and cruel, tempest emotions tear through him as he begins to sob.

In the end, when morning breaks and Kaie finally frees him from the tight ropes woven around his wrists and ankles, Vilkas does not rise. He holds his head in his hands, draws his knees to his chest, and prays to the Nine for a miracle. 


	34. (smut) the feeling of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sheogorath drops by to say hello to an old friend of hers. rune would rather enjoy spending a night with his husband than deal with the prince of madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haven't forgotton the story!! but work and school and stuff has priority yknow? ): trying to switch jobs right now... but also give this story the ending it deserves and not cut too many corners/over-rush things. but i haven't forgotten the story! :D still here. still love all u readers.  
> most of this chapter is plot-y stuff relevant to the two other stories in the consumerism series  
> but also smut at the end because (smut confetti)  
> tw for:  
> -anal  
> -think that's it?  
> smut starts at:  
> "as he sighs against the man."  
> to skip you can ctrl+f:  
> "“Come back in one piece.”"

The necklace around his neck is made of perfectly lustrous gold. A massive red stone is embedded in the middle of the necklace. To his relief, it feels lighter than it looks. Though the pendant itself prompts him to raise both brows, it is the sight of himself in decadent apparel that leaves his speechless. When the mirror presents itself, the Dragonborn sees he is dressed in robes befitting _Oblivion_ ’s era. It has been many months since he last thought of the game he played just before being abducted into the world of Tamriel; the sudden reminder makes his stomach churn from newly excavated memories.

 _Does my family miss me?_ Rune finds the dream thinks his thoughts aloud. He is a man dressed in finery and adorned in the _Amulet of_ _Kings._

There is not much time to think: before his eyes, across an expanse of white space and swirling mist, is a large table. The table is made of granite speckled with carbon and sparkling in slivers of quartz. It is a lovely table but one that is terribly lonely; Rune does not see any other furniture next to it. He stops in his thoughts and stares at the table. When he begins to step forward, a chair falls from the sky and lands with a soft _thud_. Another chair falls out of the sky a moment later. Rune jumps back in bewilderment and throws his hands over his face to protect himself. No chairs rain on him, but the intense grip of a Daedric Prince wafts in with the smell of fresh blueberry muffins.

He has not smelled blueberry muffins since long before his arrival in Tamriel.

“Do you want one?” A lady asks.

The Dragonborn flinches and lowers his hands to his side. He squints and eyes a strange woman with long black hair meticulously pulled into a French braid down the back. The Dragonborn’s brown gaze rises to meet the Dremora’s copper-red one. Rune bites his lip and fights the urge to keel over and vomit at the realization a Daedric Prince stalks his mind.

He sees the power emitting off the woman: he finds it comes off her in terrible waves, every bit as lovely and wonderful as the two-hued, layered dress adorning her figure. A long set of buttons trails down the middle of her dress from her bodice to the edge of her skirts’ hems. Her obsidian-skin holds curls of ribbon-like red streaks across it. Her lips remain puckered and calm. She is Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness.

There is a plate of fresh blueberry muffins on the table. They are not Tamriel in origin, because Rune clearly makes out muffin tins encasing the bottom of each muffin. He does not recall anyone in Skyrim ever using let alone hearing of muffin tins. The concept seems alien in the realm of Skyrim’s Nordic magic. But, if there is anyone in the universe of Tamriel capable of knowing what a muffin tin is, it is none other than a Daedra. The Princes commanding planes of Oblivion are a nasty bunch and Rune is increasingly grateful Farkas and Vilkas purged the blood of Hircine from their veins in the years gone by.

He stares at Sheogorath. The _Amulet of Kings_ feels heavy around his neck. The red stone set into the gold glows faintly. Sometimes, when Rune lifts a hand to it, the stone feels like it pulses or beats like a heart in his ears.

“Why am I here?” The Dragonborn asks instead.

He squints when Sheogorath sighs and throws her hands into the air. The woman spins in her chair, another thing that prompts Rune to gawk and stare. There is no record of _spinning office chairs_ in Tamriel.

“Why wouldn’t you be here? You met me plenty of times in another life, Rune.” The Prince replies.

“We’ve never met before. _Never._ I don’t associate with your kind,” Rune makes his stance clear. The Dragonborn struggles to think of Words of Power capable of taking down such a foe. Sheogorath is no mere Daedra; she is a _god_ and he but a mortal. He grits his teeth. “Tell me what in Tartarus you want before I _fus ro_ you back to Oblivion!”

“You can’t. This is a dream, silly.” Sheogorath stops her spinning. She puts her feet up on the table and leans back. Her eyes gleam and glimmer. “Dragonborn. I need to talk to you. I have very, very important questions for you, yes, I do! Very important ones. Answer them and I will leave you be.”

Rune clenches his teeth. “Why would I do that?”

“They aren’t hard questions. I even made you muffins,” the Prince of Madness sweeps a hand at the blueberry muffins. In a second, the plate scoots over to Rune’s side of the table. Tentatively, the Dragonborn pulls his chair back and slowly sits. Sheogorath nods in delight at his cooperation; Rune does not hide his displeasure at it all. He begrudgingly takes a muffin and bites into it.

It tastes like nothing.

Sheogorath chortles in glee. “Now, now. Now. Now! Questions for you, Dragonborn, yes. So much of me and I and we and us have yearned to ask of you many things, you see; many, many things. But I don’t want to pick your brain more than maggots pick mine. You see… I’ve been playing many games since we last left off. Been imposing my will, if I do say so myself! I am not a Prince for nothing. I am the power of two Princes, the curse of a universe ripped from my heels and carried far from my clutches. I am Sheogorath, but I was once someone else.”

“That’s not a question.” Is the only thing Rune says as he dumps the plate of blueberry muffins into the whiteness.

“Why do you wear that?” Sheogorath pines for an answer; she leans forward in her seat and eyes the Dragonborn like he’s fresh meat.

“I don’t know,” Rune looks at his robes and amulet and grimaces. “I guess, I dunno, you said it was a dream? Something of the sort? I guess I… randomly picked it? While asleep? I played _Oblivion_ a lot. Not that I expect you to understand—”

“Elder Scrolls: Oblivion,” the Prince of Madness watches his eyes grow wide. Sheogorath smiles politely at him. “What? Do you think I’m unaware, Dragonborn? Unaware of _Earth?_ Of _Gaia?_ Of the tiny planet spinning among several in the Milky Way, lost among an ever-expanding universe bound for inevitable heat death? My dear, my dear, my dear, sweet, lovely Dragonborn—I am _well_ aware where you come from. I know all about Earth.”

“What the hell is going on?” Rune feels color drain from his face. He pinches himself to make sure he really is in a dream. The man turns to Sheogorath and jabs a finger in her direction. “How—When—”

“I can’t explain _everything_ to you. Time still passes, Rune! Even in a dream!” The Prince’s tone makes him want to leap out of his chair and shove the table aside: it is condescending to the finest degree, a caliber of esteemed mockery.

Rune glares but says nothing.

The Prince of Madness smiles fondly at him. Her eyes hold mirth and mystery, both in the worst way possible. “You think I’m lying?”

“I don’t think you have reason to lie. But I don’t think you have reason to tell truth for free, either. I know you, Daedra. You and all—All those others. You’ve tried convincing me to take up your banner on more than one occasion! Mehrunes Dagon, Mal Bolag… Disgusting! I’m not like that. It won’t work this time, no matter how much truth you spew. My soul is mine and mine alone.” Rune says curtly.

“Why do you wear the past, Dragonborn?” The Prince repeats her question.

The Dragonborn stares.

“Why?” Sheogorath presses.

Rune exhales. He shrugs. “I—I told you. I don’t know—”

“But you do,” Sheogorath cuts him off. She twiddles her thumbs and looks at her lap. “You know. Somewhere deep, deep inside of you, darling—It’s _there_. It’s lurking. That terrible, needy ache to know _how_ you arrived in Tamriel. You remember nothing?”

The words switch something on inside of Rune. The Dragonborn feels fear and nausea creep into his stomach. His eyes grow big again and he stares at the Prince. “…I woke up in a cart en route to Helgen. The Imperial Army said I was a prisoner. Alduin attacked before I could be executed. Rest is history.”

“How did you get in the cart, Rune? My dear, sweet, lovely Dragonborn— _How_ did you get in the cart? You wouldn’t know this,” and in a second the Prince no longer seems so bizarre and disastrous. The Prince of Madness lifts a hand to her bun and undoes her hair. It falls around her shoulders and cascades in a manner that is terrifying as it is familiar. Sheogorath’s gaze softens. “But I know, Rune. I know. I’ve known since I first… Got into this mess. Since I got trapped in the game. Since the game became… my world.”

 _Since the game became my world._ Rune is left speechless.

This is no Prince of Madness. This is an individual from Earth itself, someone like _him_ , someone who got stuck in Tamriel just as he did.

 _But how do you know me?_ The Dragonborn wants to ask, but there is no need.

“In another universe… I made a deal at the risk of our soul. My soul, that is,” the Prince hums softly and begins to drum her fingers along the edge of the table. “I swore to Prince Nocturnal… And I offered my soul as collateral. To think—After we got so far—After we stopped _Voldusos_ —The entropy—Banished Dragonkind—Saved the Dark Brotherhood—We—I—I fucked everything up.” She moves to hold her head in her hands.

Rune has no words of comfort. He feels repulsion rise in the form of bile at the back of his throat at the mere thought the being before him is also involved with the nefarious Dark Brotherhood.

“My name is Kara,” the woman says. She looks up. “I’m the reason you’re here. The reason you’re like this, Rune. I—I used the Wabbajack on you—I had to. _I had to._ And it ripped the world in two—It made a _copycat_ of what was! And I became Sheogorath. And you became free from the crown Jyggalag forced upon your head.”

“The crown Jyggalag—The Prince of Order?? _That’s you!”_ Rune barks out. He grits his teeth. “Or—Was you! In _Oblivion_ … You… If the Oblivion Crisis takes place two-hundred-years-ago then… You would be the Hero of Kvatch, right? Champion of Cyrodiil? In the Shivering Isles expansion—You would stop Jyggalag, free him from his curse, and he would make _you_ become Sheogorath. I don’t—I shouldn’t even entertain this nonsense. This is a dream, Daedra. I want to wake up.”

“I had to talk to you! _Rune._ ” The Daedric Prince sounds sincere in her pleas, almost enough to make the Dragonborn hesitate. Sheogorath grabs the table’s edge and clenches it tightly with both hands. She eyeballs him with a wild gleam. “It’s hard to speak. What with the universe the way it is—”

“And what is that? Huh? _Sheogorath?”_ The Dragonborn bares his fangs.

“Do you know the story of Namira? The Repulsive One?” Sheogorath snaps.

Rune narrows his gaze. “She’s a Daedric Prince—”

“She’s _involved._ Maybe you don’t believe me—”

“I don’t.”

“ _But_ it’s true! Dragonborn! She’s been conniving and scheming and _trying_ to interfere! And that’s—It’s unacceptable, it is, my dear, truly, not when I am already in perforated perplexion over the nuisances of this feeble existence,” the Prince sighs and scratches the surface of her table with painted nails. She looks to the side. Sheogorath slumps in her seat and fiddles with a lovely ornamental crown on her forehead. “I have to be… _careful_ , Dragonborn. I walk these worlds with suspicions on my shoulders and hatred in my veins! No one hates Sheogorath as much as myself! No one hates me more than I _can_ and _have_ and _do_ and _will.”_

“It isn’t my problem—Your _sob story_ doesn’t effect me.” Rune growls.

“But it does! It _does!_ It does, it does, it does! That’s what I’m trying to tell you, darling! We’re all tangled up in a mess! In a horrifying parallel! But instead of _you_ being the one with the crown and I the hero—You have taken the mantle! You followed my advice! I’m proud of you, I am, but,” Sheogorath stands and inhales deeply. She snaps a finger. In a second her attire shifts and changes to peculiar leather armor. It reminds Rune of what he’s heard of the dying Thieves Guild of Riften. The man frowns and eyes the Prince as she goes on, “In this universe… I am not letting the _crown_ torment you endlessly. I won’t let _anyone_ or _anything_ interfere with how things turned out!”

She is annoyingly insistent. It irritates Rune how convincing her spiel is. Sheogorath’s tone and pitch is nothing short of almost sincere. The Prince speaks with amounting desperation, hinted at in the frustrated outbursts and comments. Even in her nonsensical ways, something about Sheogorath eggs at him. The Dragonborn cannot help but consider, for a moment, that perhaps the strangeness of it all _is_ because of all Sheogorath says.

It wouldn’t be the first time something unbelievable happened to him. He _is_ the Dragonborn! He was once a humble food blogger touring Italy with overprotective parents and deadlines due. His life is very different since he first woke up in the cart heading toward Helgen.

“You said your name is Kara?” Rune bites his lip. He regrets extending the olive branch immediately, because the uncomfortably hopeful gleam that appears in Sheogorath’s eyes makes him want to retch.

The Prince nods fervently at his question.

The Dragonborn sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “By the Nine. What do I say to that? To anything you rattle on an’ on about?”

“My dear—” There is a distinct note of humor behind the condescending nicknames and honeyed words. Part of it contrasts to the desperation. It makes Rune reconsider the whole thing, but not before Sheogorath continues. “You are the reason I work so hard in this universe—To make sure you are safe. That you are well. All I am and are and will be may suffer the wrath and bitterness of a million Daedra—But you? You are safe here, Dragonborn! And the fact that _bitch_ tries to ruin _everything_ makes me want to release a pandemic of entropy upon the world! Upon _everything_. But I won’t—I can’t. We can’t. I won’t. I have enough impulse-control for entropy’s gnawing urge.”

“Daedra are upset with you—Namira?” Rune asks. He hesitates and meets Sheogorath’s gaze.

Her eyes reflect raw humanity. The sight should never be on a creature of Oblivion.

“Us Princes—We act out of innate lust for _more._ For… power. Namira is the same, Dragonborn. My dear, dear, considerate Dragonborn. My hero. Prince Namira has her grubby hands set in this world. She will destroy it if someone does not intervene. She will _walk the lands of Mundus._ You know why that must never come to fruition.”

“The Oblivion Crisis,” Rune rakes a hand through his hair. The Imperial man frowns and leans back in his seat. “Fuck. I’m not—Look, I don’t follow all you say. But… I won’t let another Oblivion Crisis plague Tamriel. Not again. So much life was lost. It was a horrible thing. The last of the Septims died during the Crisis.”

“Martin Septim?” Sheogorath eyes the amulet around his neck.

Rune feels his heart sink in his chest. He opens his mouth to speak but a wave of grief washes over him like a fickle wave batting shore. He feels the _Amulet of Kings_ pulse and begin to vibrate over his chest. The man stares at it with a mixture of awe and horror as a soothing, warm voice rings out clearly in his head.

“I do what I must do.”

He knows the man. He _knows_ him, beyond mere small talk or passing comment. The voice is intimately familiar. It sounds like a man in his mid-thirties, with nerves showing through the hesitation in his statements. The voice sounds strained. The voice sounds burdened. It becomes apparent _why_ as the voice goes on: it is the last thing the final, bastard heir of the Septim dynasty says before his death to save Tamriel from Mehrunes Dagon.

“I cannot… stay to rebuild Tamriel,” and as the voice of the last Septim loops, the Dragonborn’s eyes water. He finds horror builds in the pit of his stomach. He feels his insides churn and flip. He clenches his eyes shut as Martin repeats his final farewell to the man. “That task falls to others. Farewell. You’ve been a good—A good _friend—_ In the short time that I’ve known you. But now I must go. The dragon awaits.”

“The dragon awaits? That’s all you left me with? Left me with, _here?_ Alone, Martin? Alone, without you? I—No, what am I saying? I don’t—I’m not playing _Oblivion_ —This isn’t a video game! I don’t… I didn’t know him. I _didn’t._ Don’t put fucking thoughts in my head, Daedra!” Rune hisses and backs away from the table, nearly stumbling over his chair in the process. He sees white mist as far as the eye can reach. The Dragonborn’s gaze narrows on Sheogorath once more.

‘Kara’ looks to the side. “You loved him, you know.”

“I love _Farkas._ My _husband._ The man I’m _married_ to, damnit! Not—Not…” He wipes his eyes. The fact tear-streaks linger on his face bewilders and baffles him. “I didn’t… None of that makes sense. None of it does.”

“You forgot everything. You forgot because of the Wabbajack. Because I—We—Used it on you. We tore the universe in half, Dragonborn, we put you in _this_ one—But it saved you. It saved them. Sahkriimir—Vex—Sanguine—Brynjolf—Mullokah—Veezara—Gabriella—Cicero—And you. Everyone _I_ care about! All I had to do was use the Wabbajack! Pick up the crown! Accept the mantle of entropy! We’re not so different, you and I, but you were dealt a _fucked_ hand in this madness—Jyggalag forced you to take the crown first. I took it from you. And you became a hero.”

“And I…” Rune feels his eyes grow wet again. He cannot deny it. He wants to, but the ache is so _deep_ and _present_ it physically ails him. He hisses and shakes his head. “I forgot him?! What else did I forget, _Kara?_ What else did I forget?!”

“You were tormented and trapped in a cycle of entropy, forced down a path of self-sabotage and royalty. You hurt a lot of people in that time. You hurt me, Rune. We were friends but you were Sheogorath.” Sheogorath whispers softly.

“I was Sheogorath.” The Dragonborn makes himself say the words, if only to voice the terrible realization that comes with it. Color drains from his face.

“You took everything from me. And then—Then—Everything went wrong. They were going to execute you—They were going to kill you. And Nocturnal… made me do something to prevent that. Something that made all _this_ happen. It’s… almost beautiful, you know? Or—poetic, the ways I and me and us and we have made a world just for you. It’s real. Just as real as the original. And now… we’re here. Like mirrors of our past. One’s a hero, another’s a Prince, and we are still… at this gridlock. It must stop. We have problems, Dragonborn. We have a horrible enemy, a common foe, and she will lay this world to rot if you do not intervene.”

“…Namira.” Rune exhales softly. It is all a dream, he knows that much, but it does not change the horrific headache coming on. He swallows the pain. “Maybe I—Maybe I can believe you. For a moment, Sheogorath. But you’re a Daedra—”

“I am a Daedra.”

“You lust for power—”

“I _do_ lust for power.” Sheogorath remarks dryly.

“I can’t trust you.” Rune snaps. He raises a trembling hand and points in her direction. “I can’t _trust you_. But I—I can hear you out. Tell me about Namira. Tell me what I need to do to stop her from manifesting on Mundus. That’s what you meant, right? She’s going to walk the lands of Mundus, of _Nirn,_ and it will cause catastrophe.”

“The worst of plagues, the heinousness of rot, and sheer death in droves the like hasn’t been seen in thousands of years.” The Daedric Prince snaps a finger.

In a second—The two are not by a table, but within a garden of beautiful flowers. Sheogorath stands among a field of dragon-tongue blossoms. The orange flowers compliment the lady’s strange set of armor.

“They built this after I betrayed them all.” Sheogorath remarks softly. “This is… not real. A glimpse of my memory, Dragonborn. Of—Of a time I caught a view of the beauty of the _Obsidian End._ You do not know of it, do you?”

“No.”

“As you shouldn’t, darling. It would… bring back not-good memories,” Sheogorath reiterates. The Daedric Prince of Madness clears her throat and straightens upright. “Isn’t it a perfect backdrop for a dramatic reveal? A spiel the likes you’ve never been so disgusted by before? I assure you—I tried to approach this without involving _you_ , Dragonborn. But the woman wanted nothing to do with me! _Nothing!_ ”

“Woman?”

“ _Leilani Whitemane._ ” At the Dragonborn’s stare, the Prince of Madness continues. “You shouldn’t be surprised. A member of your Circle will return from a trip soon, my strong Dragonborn. When that happens—When it happens—You’ll hear it from her, first and foremost. She’ll tell you. Leilani Whitemane is… an unfortunate case. A riveting tragedy! But it is not her tragedy I care about, no. It is how it would impact you, Dragonborn.”

Something clicks in the man’s head. He begins to see the relevancies of Sheogorath’s previous statements. Rune’s eyes dim. “She’s—She’s related to Namira?”

“Eh, more or less. She is not _quite_ related to Namira opposed to _being_ Namira.” Sheogorath speaks simply. She hums to herself and throws her hands in the air. The woman spins around in her memory of orange flowerbeds, utterly smitten by the flora while Rune stares on in concern. “—It’s a harrowing tale, my lovely! My dear! My kind, kind Dragonborn—Oh, _Rune,_ it is atrocious to consider—She was but a teenager at her time of death, not even a full-grown woman—And yet—And _yet_ —The world was full of darkness for her. Yes, yes. It was…”

Rune frowns. The man’s hands clench; he narrows his gaze on Sheogorath’s back while the latter’s clothes meld from dark leather armor to a form-fitting bodysuit of black-and-red. The color scheme of the notorious Dark Brotherhood glares at him. Sheogorath tucks a strand of hair behind one obsidian-black ear.

She looks back at him. Her lips curl into a smile. “I don’t know her. I don’t care about her, Dragonborn. But she—She’s Farkas’ friend. She is Vilkas’s friend. And that meant… if something happens to her… It upsets them. Which upsets _you_. And you—Gods help us, from Zeus to the Holy Spirit to Osiris and beyond— _You_ mean _everything_ to me now. I will tear universes apart to ensure the safety of those I care about. In this world—That means you.”

 _You mean everything to me now._ The words have a horribly sincere tone to them. Rune silently questions how much he does not remember, as if having his mind abruptly interrupted with memories of the late Martin Septim wasn’t bad enough. His heart aches at the thought of the latter. He rubs his forehead and turns to look across the flower beds. The sky overhead is dark but tinged with red.

“You’re convincing me. A little. I guess.” Rune mutters under his breath. He sighs. “This’s giving me a horrible headache, you know.”

“I figured. Memories do that, my darling.” Sheogorath lifts a hand to her mouth and chortles gleefully.

“Why do you say that? Things like—My dear, my darling. Sweetheart. It’s condescending as fuck.” The Dragonborn asks. His hands drop to his sides. He straightens upright.

The Prince of Madness pauses. She looks away. “Why, my dear, I s’pose it is _entropy_ ’s little way of reminding me and us and we and _I_ that I cannot be _entirely_ in control. It is too much for one consumer—That is, one person from _Earth._ Entropy is… unfathomably invasive and distorting. It changes the way you think. It compels your actions, my dear! It prompts you to sabotage yourself and leaves you alone to suffer by your lonesome. Then it takes that loneliness, it balls it up, and it… Feeds. It feeds on provoking discord in its host, in unraveling impulse and order. I understand why Lord Jyggalag never cared for it. I’d think it a curse, too.”

“A sucky curse.”

“But without a good afterglow, the nerves of it all.” Sheogorath huffs and stomps one foot. The Dremora smiles politely at Rune and nods at him. “Will you help your universe, Hero of Kvatch? Can you save it once again? Keep Oblivion’s residents off its doorsteps?”

“I don’t have an _Amulet of Kings_ or _Martin Septim_ to help me, Daedra. No offense, but you are not either of those two.” Rune absentmindedly glances down at the dream’s _Amulet of Kings_ hanging off his neck.

Kara laughs. “And? You’re the _Dragonborn!_ One day—You’ll slay _Alduin!_ You’ll slay him and stop Dragonkind! Paarthurnax will help you! You will confront the Dragon Priest Miraak, find the Bow of Auriel, and live to become one of the most powerful warriors on the continent! You have no idea the places you’ll go, the people you’ll meet, and the acts of heroism you shall fall upon. You are the _Hero_ of this, Rune. You are the Hero of Kvatch and soon to be the Hero of Skyrim. To Oblivion with an _Amulet of Kings_! I come to you for help because we believe in you!”

“Were you always this cheerful? When—When you were a Hero.” Rune squints.

“Far from it, darling. I enjoyed a good dose of sass, a whopping of humor, and nothing but the finest of banter among my fellow thieves.” The Prince of Madness snaps a finger and the world fades back into an epiphany of glowing white. No table lingers, no chairs or flowers seen, and once more Sheogorath wears a frilly, multi-layered dress littered with buttons of various shapes and sizes.

“How can I help Leilani Whitemane? How can I stop Namira from walking Mundus?” With nothing else to ponder over, Rune shifts the conversation back on track. He strides to Sheogorath’s side. The man hesitates before he jabs a finger at the Daedric Prince. The gesture amuses Sheogorath greatly; she begins to chortle heartily but Rune does not show fear or back down.

“Why, I was beginning to think you would _never_ ask!”

“Get on with it, please.” Rune draws his hand away.

Sheogorath sits in the air as if a chair _did_ exist. One does not. She crosses her legs and is suddenly wearing pants with decadent bow trim at the end of the pant leggings. Buttons riddles the sides of the material, sewn in a bumpy line up to her hip. She purses her lips. “My dear—The problem you must sort out—It is the fact Namira and Leilani Whitemane share… ‘souls.’ The purest of an individual’s self: their essence is mixed. It was not originally like that! That was the result of mortal interference! Now, _you_ do not remember this, but _we_ know very well about the way Daedric magic manifests on this plane of existence. It saved my life when I was mortal, and it gave me new life when you made Paarthurnax walk me off a cliff. Nasty business, that.”

 _I did what?_ The Dragonborn stares.

Sheogorath waves him off and continues. “Another story for another time! What _you_ must understand—You delightfully confused individual—Is that Daedric Princes can create new forms. New _flesh._ So, here is what _I_ propose. I will give you my most precious artifact—The Wabbajack. And you… will find Leilani Whitemane, the aspect of Namira, and use that on her.”

Though he raises a brow at the mention of the Prince’s artifact, Rune takes the strange staff when Sheogorath pulls it from thin air and hands it over. It feels rough and grimy in his hand. The intricate design of—Woodwork or metalwork, _something_ he cannot recognize yet finds familiar—is both beautiful and deeply unnerving. Rune frowns and turns it over in his hands. He looks back up at Sheogorath. “That’s it?”

“For you, yes. My dear—You must promise not to say a word once you use that staff. It is entropy incarnate! A pinpoint of focused absurdity! The most precise random number generator to grace search engines! Even better than that! Even _more_ that what can be said by a Prince! It will… Draw Namira forth. And when Namira is present,” Sheogorath nods to herself. “I will speak to her. We will sort this entire trifling matter out. And voila! Happy ever after for all of you. Farkas, Vilkas, Leilani Whitemane, you—It will turn out okay. It will be okay.” She closes her eyes. “I’ll be happy when things are okay for _you,_ Rune.”

“Will it be okay for you, though?” The Dragonborn pauses and lowers the staff. He stares at Sheogorath for an answer, but none comes. It takes him aback to find the chatty, erratic individual so utterly silent. Rune’s gaze darkens. “Sheogorath. Sheogorath. _Kara!”_

“I’ll be okay.” The voice is painfully familiar.

He knows her. He remembers her, kind of, and the time the two spent together with a white-haired Imperial lady in the Thieves Guild.

He never took himself for a thief, but the life of a criminal was all that awaited him when Sheogorath dumped his body on the coast of Skyrim.

The world called him Rune because he held a magical stone with symbols hinting at the Oblivion Crisis two-hundred years prior. The world called him Rune because he became fixated with translating the damn rock and identifying it. The world called him Rune because it is the name he always picked for his characters in the Elder Scrolls series. His choices are not new.

He is still _Rune_ for the same reason, albeit with less rocks and no apparent ties to the Prince of Madness. But he does not understand the latter; he cannot fathom how he both accepts once being Sheogorath while possessing no recollection of how someone else became Sheogorath. He lacks the last, most important pieces to the puzzle: his final moments in another universe.

He feels nausea begin to brew in the pit of his stomach as possibilities creep into the corners of his mind.

“What did you do? To take my crown. How did you do it?” The Dragonborn’s grip on the _Wabbajack_ tightens. He stares. When no response comes, the man tries again. “You mentioned Nocturnal. Queen of Murk, right? _Lady Luck?_ Who was going to kill me, again?”

“My dear,” the Prince of Madness clears her throat and pats down the skirt of her dress. “That’s not important. All you need to know—It brought us to this point. My actions… Saved you. It kept all of them alive. It kept _you_ alive. This crown is a small price to pay for that.”

“By Zeus, you’re stubborn.” Rune runs a hand through his hair and sighs loudly. “I’m trying—I want to figure out how to _help_ you, stubborn Daedra! Sheogorath! You can’t just pop up in a dream, dump this information on me, and expect me to do nothing with it!”

“We aren’t doing nothing. You’re going to find Leilani Whitemane and Namira and use the Wabbajack on the aspect’s body. I’m going to prepare for that moment, then I’m going to use all sorts of magic and deus ex machina to put the world to rest. To right! It will be okay, it will.” Sheogorath hums loudly at the last statement. She nods to her own words.

“Deus ex machina. For me, right? For this universe? But not for you.” Rune observes. His voice becomes sharp. “You think there’s no—You think there’s no way?”

“We never said that—”

“You may as well have!” Rune throws one hand into the air. He grits his teeth. “I’m not the most attentive Dragonborn around but I—I can put some shit together, Sheogorath! You really… You think there’s no way to help you. But that’s… You helped me. Somehow. You. Helped. _Me._ You took _my crown._ You became entropy. That happened. Which means—Which means there must be a way. A way for someone else—”

 _“And condemn another existence to this?”_ Kara spins on her heels and hisses with all the venom of a snake. The Dremora’s eyes blaze a violent red-brown. “Foolish, foolish Dragonborn! Foolish Rune! I did not _choose this_ —But I am not a _monster!_ I won’t force this on another person! Let one suffer for millenia! Let the rest live a spared life! You and all the others—I _accept this_ as my fate! I accept this as our outcome! My end of the story! My woe and tragedy! We can exist like this to keep everyone safe. To keep everyone alive. To…” The Dremora’s shoulders slump. Her eyes narrow. She glares at Rune.

Rune glares back, equally stubborn.

“You find the aspect of Namira. Use the Wabbajack on her. Keeping the Lady of Decay from fully manifesting on Mundus is most important. We will handle the rest, Dragonborn.”

Though Rune opens his mouth, no sounds come out. No protests follow. He jerks awake and finds his breath short and shaky, with sweat dripping down his forehead and his hands clammy. He stares at the ceiling of Jorrvaskr’s living quarters. He feels the warmth of his husband’s snoozing body curled up against him. Rune catches his breath and leans back into the pillows of the two’s shared bed. He glances at Farkas and exhales in relief that the man is there. He knows Farkas occasionally forgets to come to bed; the man is run around daily by their children.

 _But you’re here now._ Rune’s eyes soften. He leans down and kisses the man’s forehead. When he draws back, the Dragonborn grins ear-to-ear at the sight of sleepy brown eyes staring up at him. “Didn’t think you were awake.”

“I _wasn’t_.” The older man grumbles, but Farkas smiles anyways. It is a rare sight reserved for one of the few moments the two have alone. When his husband pulls him down, Rune gleefully obliges in kissing the man.

He enjoys the feeling of Farkas’s stubble rubbing against his face. He enjoys the wrinkles forming in the man, a sigh he has survived the dangers of Skyrim. Rune finds the need to keep the man close rise in his chest. He settles in the bed next to Farkas and holds unto him, propped against the latter’s bare chest. Rune smiles to himself when Farkas’s throat rumbles in affection. Even after being married to Farkas, the Dragonborn is still in disbelief that the two are together. He may very well be the luckiest—and only—Dragonborn in all Tamriel, across the expanse of Mundus itself, because there is none more handsome and loving and supportive than Farkas.

“Love…” It feels _euphoric_ to hear the word fall from Farkas’s lips. Rune gladly meets his husband’s gaze. Farkas pauses and studies his face. “You okay?”

 _You read me like a book._ Rune thinks. He inhales deeply and shrugs. “Oh, you know. Just… having strange dreams. The kind you might laugh at me at. Or sigh like Vilkas does, but for a week. Maybe two. A month, even.”

The Dragonborn’s gaze wanders the room. He knows not to doubt a dream involving a Daedric Prince. Whether it is being projected into an astral variation or glimpse of the Prince’s respective plane of Oblivion or being shoved through memories and forced to come to an agreement with the Prince of Madness, Rune knows just how foreboding a dream of a Prince can be. The Imperial man’s eyes slowly creep across the room and stop on the shadow of a staff leaning against a corner of the two’s bedchamber.

 _The Wabbajack._ Rune does not dare breath the artifact’s name. Instead, he turns to his husband and pauses. “I need to go on a trip tomorrow. I don’t have an explanation that will make sense. I need you to trust me that I know what I’m doing and that I’ll be okay. And—I need you to watch the kids while I’m gone.”

Farkas’s eyes reflect a flicker of worry. “…Love. Why do you…?”

“I need to find Leilani Whitemane.” Rune states. He hears his husband’s sharp intake of breath and mentally chides himself. But he does not regret it. He would rather be honest with his husband and have his husband _pissed_ at him than to lie and weasel around his spouse’s back.

“I…” The sigh that follows is deep and heavy, just like Vilkas’s would be. Farkas shares that with his brother.

“It’s because of the dream. I saw a—I was visited by a Daedra—”

 _“What?”_ Farkas bolts upright. The man stares and gawks at Rune. If the atmosphere in the room wasn’t so tense, it might be endearing.

“I know—I _know—_ It’s not a _smart_ idea—”

“You’re Dragonborn, Rune. Don’t Daedra want a piece of you?” Farkas visibly grimaces. He runs a hand through his brown hair, cut short and neat. It looks lovely on him. Rune bites back the need to run _his_ hands through it, knowing the subject needs to be talked through before his thoughts go anywhere.

“Yeah. Yeah, they do. But this one is… This one gave me a different feeling.” Rune flops on the bed. He looks up at his husband and frowns. “I need to go. As a _Dragonborn._ I need to find Leilani Whitemane. Something about that—It will let me stop a Daedric Prince from manifesting on Nirn.”

The words go over Farkas’s head. The Nord breathes in deeply and groans. “Ugh. You sound determined, love. I can’t talk you out of going.”

“Can you watch the kids while I’m gone?” Rune peers at his spouse. “I don’t know how long it’ll be.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Farkas grumbles but nods.

“Thank you. I love you.” Rune grins ear-to-ear when a deep, permeating flush springs on the Nord’s face. The Dragonborn wriggles up to grab Farkas and kiss him. He finds Farkas responds eagerly. The latter cups Rune’s cheeks and pulls him into deeper and longer kisses. The thirty-four-year-old man cannot hold back a groan when he feels his husband’s erection prod him in the abdomen. Rune feels Farkas shift on the two’s bed and climbs over him.

He huffs at the man parting lips. Farkas pauses and looks down at him. “Rune. Love. Do you want to—”

“Yes. Yes, I’d love to,” the Dragonborn smiles. “If you want to. _I_ want to.”

“I love you.” Farkas leans down and kisses him gently. It is light and airy and decadent and intimate; Rune feels butterflies flutter in his stomach and all memories of the strange dream melt in seconds as he sighs against the man.

For a moment, Farkas leaves him on the bed and climbs off to look through a small chest tucked on a lower shelf next to the two’s bed. He climbs back on the bed with a jar of lube that gleams even in the low light of Jorrvaskr. When Farkas cannot open the lid, Rune cannot help but laugh and take it from him. The Dragonborn pops the lid open and holds it out to Farkas. Farkas’s nose crinkles and he takes the jar and lid without a word.

“How do you want to do this?” Farkas asks softly as he gets ready.

Rune feels heat pool in his stomach. He swallows and looks to the side. “Frankly—It doesn’t matter to me which _way_ —As long as I’m with you, you know? I enjoy being with you. Like this.”

“Like this?” Farkas sounds exceptionally innocent for a man that rips bed covers off. Rune feels his entire naked body spring with goosebumps from the cool air. He does not hide or move away; he has no discomfort. When Farkas climbs between his legs and prods his rear with a finger, Rune rewards him with a breathy sigh.

“I _really_ love you,” the Dragonborn sings softly as his husband smears lube around his sphincter and begins to press a finger in. Rune cannot hold back the gasp that comes from the digit entering him. The Dragonborn feels blood rush to his shaft; his own erection is a proud, slanted tower begging to be dealt with. He lets out a soft intake when Farkas begins to finger him.

His husband is attentive to all his needs and noises. He knows exactly what to repeat to make Rune start to squirm. It is good, but it is nowhere near what the anticipation leads to. Rune finds himself becoming more and more desperate and time goes on. When Farkas draws back his finger suddenly, the Dragonborn shudders in pleasure. Rune looks at the silhouette of his husband. Farkas’s hands suddenly fall on the man’s shaft. A moment later, Rune bucks his hips and yelps in bliss as warm lips engulf the head of his penis. Rune begins to pant as Farkas sucks on his tip and slowly, carefully massages his shaft’s length.

It isn’t enough to climax. Farkas stops when Rune begins to tense and tremble, the latter guffawing and gasping in growing desperation to make love and connect with his husband. The Dragonborn tries to sit up and reciprocate the act, but Farkas gently pushes him down.

“You always want to do everything.” Rune remarks softly.

Farkas parts the man’s legs. He climbs between them and shifts a pillow beneath Rune’s rear. The Dragonborn’s legs naturally drape around Farkas’s hips, like the two’s bodies were made for one another.

“I enjoy it,” Farkas mutters in response. He leans over Rune and kisses the man’s chest while the lubricated head of his shaft bumps into the curve of Rune’s rear. Rune throws his head back and inhales deeply. He looks up and finds Farkas staring at him. Farkas shifts his hands to Rune’s hips and rolls his hips into the Dragonborn’s, entering him smoothly.

It feels like the world stops and starts again. The sensation of Farkas inside of him is enough to make Rune pant and shake. He grips Farkas’s head and rakes his nails across the man’s scalp. Farkas’s throat rumbles in response. Farkas begins to gyrate his hips into the man’s. The thrusting is aided by the lube applied beforehand, but Rune can still feel the friction inside of him as the man’s hot shaft penetrates him inside. Rune’s hands drop from Farkas’s head at one point and the Dragonborn’s back arches; Rune cannot hold back his cry of pleasure once Farkas strikes up a steady pace and begins to thrust into a pleasurable spot inside the Dragonborn.

It does not take long for the pleasure to build. Rune grips the bed sheets and shakes. He hears Farkas pant loudly with each new smack the two’s hips bring. When Farkas throws himself forward and buries himself in Rune, the latter abruptly orgasms wrapped up in his husband. The Dragonborn grabs at and makes to cling back to him while Farkas collapses on top of him. In the sweaty, sweet intimacy of afterglow, Rune looks at Farkas and musters a smile. Farkas pulls out and climbs up to claim the man’s lips.

“Come back in one piece.” Farkas states softly. He lays down next to Rune but does not shift away. Rune settles next to him and smiles when Farkas begins to stroke his messy, curly hair.

“I plan on it,” The Dragonborn shuts his eyes. He sighs with contentment, the feeling of peace a warm tingling from his ass to his toes. Maybe there will be a mess to clean up in the morning, but for a time he is busy enjoying the feel of his husband’s bare skin against his own. Rune does not fall asleep, but he enjoys the few hours of darkness the two have together.

He has a trip to prepare for in the morning.


	35. an impossible certain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the road to markarth, the two forsworn and their harbinger are delayed by storms. the rain may be just the thing needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -there's some mentions of cheating / infidelity

He doesn’t need to travel to Markarth anymore—But he does.

The Companion’s Harbinger is a peculiar man; Vilkas does nothing but insist on traveling with the duo whenever Kaie or Ohdon bring it up. By the third day of the trip, the sentiment almost _irks_ her. Vilkas does not have a need to go to the city, especially when it is so far away from anything _honorary_ or _just_. Markarth is a corrupt city nestled on the western border of Skyrim. It holds only blood and silver. Vilkas, from Kaie’s understanding, does not need either the two.

She is not sure what he needs anymore. Information on the aspect of Namira is no longer worthwhile leverage. Kaie doubts the Harbinger misses any critical pieces of info given how close he had become to the aspect prior to the group splitting up. There is nothing to gain by breaking out the King in Rags, save the respect of a handful of Forsworn. 

_You don’t have a reason to travel with us._ Kaie thinks on the fourth day. It is noon. The trek to Markarth is a painful one that drags out as storms push the trio off course again and again. The notion of stopping or turning back is out of the picture; the three are a day out from Markarth and soon the King in Rags will walk free again. Kaie’s nose scrunches up, not at the thought of her king’s freedom—But that of the gleaming, golden warrior in pristine dwarven metal.

“You’re staring.” Vilkas remarks.

Kaie huffs and sticks out her bottom lip. “I am! So. Does it matter? You look like yer made of gold. We’d be lucky to not hit a pack of bandits by Markarth.”

The Harbinger grips the reins of his horse tighter. He faces forward. “When we get to Markarth—I’ll talk to their Jarl.”

“Uh-huh.” Up ahead, Ohdon slows his horse’s pace until the animal walks alongside his two companions. Kaie shoots the Briarheart a glance while the warrior goes on, words as dry as fresh jerky. “—What do you plan to say, Harbinger? Markarth isn’t a play den. Only things running in and out of that plane of Oblivion are silver and blood.”

“I’m the Harbinger.” Vilkas’ dark brown eyes dim. His lips are pulled tightly across his face in a stout frown.

“And I’m Kaie. So! You’re a Harbinger? I’m a Kaie. Nobody cares. It doesn’t matter.” Kaie clears her throat after she finishes talking. She hears her horse snort.

When no answer comes, the woman pauses and looks over. It _annoys_ her to see the sullen, bitter expression begin to creep in. A monotonous Vilkas is far more tolerable than an angsty Vilkas. She does not like the fact he has descended into a mess of shifting feelings and emotions. Maybe the man was close to Namira’s aspect, but that is no reason to behave in such a manner! She should know; she is all-too aware of the sting of loss, of betrayal, and of somber acceptance and mourning. She _understands_ how awful it is when circumstances play out beyond one’s control. She _gets it._ Kaie grits her teeth and runs a hand through messy brown hair while she thinks. _The sooner you acknowledge it, the faster the pain goes away._

“I care.” Vilkas says after a long pause. The Nord continues looking forward, though his words are directed at Kaie. “You’re a… _Kaie._ ” He sighs. “You remind me of my brother-in-law. By Mara, I struggle sometimes with him. But he’s… not a bad man. He grew on me.”

“I am not a man, Harbinger.” Kaie says. She sucks in a deep breath.

From his perch on his horse, Ohdon adjusts his deer-pelt helm. The overcast sky provides enough daylight to contrast the sandy-colored pelt against his skin. The man gives Kaie a passing glance before kicking at his horse’s sides and trotting forward ahead of both Forsworn and Harbinger. Kaie’s gaze narrows. If the Briarheart thinks he can make the trio’s interactions less awkward and soul-draining—He has a _terrible_ way of showing it.

“I meant,” Vilkas’s words grab her attention. She snaps her head at him and blinks. He grimaces. “You’ve grown on me. A little. And Namira… She trusts—” He pauses and color drains from his face. The Harbinger shakes his head. “She trusted you. Right? You’re someone important to her. A friend, at least. She’d want you to be okay. She wants me to see this through.”

“Is that why you’re coming with us? You know—I don’t really care, but you could probably just… Not go with us. You could go back to, what was it? Whiterun, right? That’s where your mead hall is?” Kaie rubs her chin. She frowns and glances across the wilderness passing by; the Reach is truly a beautiful and intimidating set of wild lands. It is home, and one day it will be under the control of its rightful inhabitants.

“I considered it. Decided it wouldn’t work. Not for me. Namira—She wanted me to go with you. By the Nine, I wish she’d told me to fuck off and die. It’d be easier than this. But—No. No. That wasn’t…” For a moment, the man’s careful complexion and composure cracks. Kaie is attentive enough to catch a glimpse of the wet eyes and shuddering intake of air. The woman frowns at him while Vilkas quickly catches himself and calms down. The Harbinger looks to the side. “I’ve been called impulsive before. Rash, once. Hotheaded. Prone to… quick decisions. I thought… I _tried_ to be past that. Be the Harbinger my predecessor wanted of me. But I think—Now—I realize it’s part of who I am, at least the impulsive part.”

It is a sudden confession and one too personal for Kaie not to quiet down at. She wants to offer a snarky comment or remark, but she restrains herself for a time and lets the Companion go on.

His words are soft. He speaks gingerly, with both remorse and bitterness wrapped up beneath a melancholy exterior. Vilkas never looks at her as he continues, “—I got caught up in… the present. In Namira. In happiness. That ain’t for a Harbinger. I should’a known better. She’s got her own path to walk. She doesn’t want me on it. Not even at the end. Not even…” The man wipes his eyes. When his hands return to the reins of his horse, his grip is tight. “Fool. That’s what I am. Not even a Harbinger. A fool.”

“Hey—To be fair, it… This wasn’t how I thought this trip would go. I thought there was more time.” Kaie rubs the back of her head again. Her brown eyes dim.

“Would it have changed anything?” The question carries a plea tucked away in its depths. Vilkas is the one staring when Kaie meets his gaze.

She offers an apologetic smile. “Maybe not the outcome. But before that? Sure. I think ya might’ve gotten closer to whatever you consider closure. Somethin’ of the sort. But that isn’t a guarantee. Fate can change quickly. Future’s malleable. This was just… not one of those times.”

“I wish it was.”

For a moment, Kaie’s own shell slips. She frowns. “Sorry.”

The three are less than an hour from Markarth when a storm interrupts them. The sudden onslaught of rain is enough to push the horses back and force their riders to seek shelter. The group finds solace in an outcropping of large cliffs encroaching on the territory surrounding Markarth. Kaie does not build a fire; they are too close to Markarth to bother setting up a camp. While the rain falls in a steady downpour, Kaie pulls out dry rations from a saddlebag and makes to sit next to Ohdon. The Briarheart looks impatient. Kaie decides against commenting on his antsy antics. She breaks her ration in half and extends the dry cracker to Ohdon; the latter takes it with a nod of gratitude.

She nibbles on it while glancing at the third member of their traveling party. Her eyes fall on the Harbinger’s soaked form, with water still gleaming in tiny droplets on top of his dwarven armor. Kaie tilts her head to one side and squints. Her brown eyes soon meet the man’s own dark brown gaze. Kaie waves her ration at him before making a point of taking large chunks off the cracker and chewing it loudly.

“Why?” Vilkas squints.

“She’s Kaie. She does this.” Ohdon answers in her place, snorting and chewing on his half of a cracker.

“I was just thinking.” The woman clears her throat. She snaps a finger and a spark of magic swirls on a free hand’s fingertip. A magical flame erupts. Kaie shoves the rest of her ration in her mouth and uses both hands to cup the flame. She smiles at the warmth it brings. When she finishes chewing her food and swallowing, the woman glances beyond the fire at Vilkas. “I was saying—I got extras in my saddlebags. Forsworn know to be prepared for delays, yah? You want a cracker?”

“I’ll pass,” The Harbinger says. He strides to the two and leans against a cliff face while watching the rain. His eyes are heavy; the bags under his eyes are heavier. When the Nord catches her stare, Vilkas blinks slowly and eyes her. “I ain’t hungry.”

Nearby, the trio’s horses whine and neigh at the group. Ohdon stands, stretches, and walks to their side. Kaie watches the Briarheart whisper softly to the three horses. Her gaze softens. She glances back at the Harbinger after a moment and pipes an optimistic smile. “So! What’s your plan? To break out our King. You have one, yah?”

“I’ll walk in, ask to see their Jarl, and improvise. Dunno.” Vilkas runs a hand through his hair. He sighs wearily, “Talos guide me... I need more time. But we don’t have time, do we?”

Kaie shrugs. The woman scratches her cheek. Her eyes gleam faintly. “Not a lot of it. You know why we have to break him out, right? If it wasn’t with you—Karthspire branch’s been planning a jailbreak for awhile now. We’d have gone ahead with a full-frontal assault had ya not come along. According to letters Vrechinn’s received—Our King doesn’t have long. The Silverblood family thinks his use is almost spent. Foolish bastards, the lot.”

“For all the talk about not being a leader—She seems to have Karthspire branch under control.” The Harbinger states.

The thought makes her smile. She looks to the side. The memories that stir are mostly happy ones, even in light the past two decades of her parents fighting with one another. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? She’s not the leader. The roots—”

“Hagravens?” Vilkas blinks.

Kaie claps and grins. “You remember! Good, good! Yes, the roots of the Forsworn are none other than the Hagravens. Maroisa is the representative of the roots of Karthspire branch. They are the closest to _leader_ in absence of our King’s presence. Vrechinn—She is very respected. Not the leader. _Respected._ As she should be.”

“Who is she? Besides—Your parent.”

“She was once King Madanach’s beloved. But never a queen—Refused to go by such a pompous term. I strive to honor that ideal; I refuse to put myself above the worth of the youngest or oldest Forsworn, of the sickest or most healthy, of only equal value for we are all one in our branch,” Kaie shuts her eyes. Her lips curl up into a brief, smug smile before she pauses, “You know, one of the reasons I am going to Markarth is to meet my father. The King in Rags. I cannot remember when I saw him last.”

“I figured you two were related, somehow.” Vilkas huffs. “Vrechinn—She not with him, then?”

“No. Our King ended that relationship when I was four. Vrechinn never told me why, but I heard enough of it through the back walls and whispers of other people. Forsworn are good at keeping secrets, but ya can’t keep a lid on shit like that forever,” Kaie reminisces slowly.

“What happened?”

She blinks. The woman looks back at Vilkas, intrigued by the question. Her brows rise and she gestures at him. “Why the curiosity?”

“You’ve been staring at me most of the trip. Figured I’d return the… curiosity? I dunno.” The Harbinger sighs. “This trip’s a mess.”

“It is.” Ohdon interjects from the side. The Briarheart has a brush in hand and is tenderly brushing out the wet pelts of the three’s horses.

The rain continues outside with the rumble of thunder overhead. Kaie looks out and watches it fall and splash into large, muddy puddles near the road. It frustrates her to think how close the three are to Markarth, but nothing can be done about it. The Forsworn’s brows narrow. She hesitates, then speaks up in a soft tone. “—I’ve heard the King in Rags had unsavory relations with… others. Not that monogamy is necessary in the branches, but ya know. If it’s expected in a relationship, then you don’t go around fucking others who aren’t your spouse.”

Hearing the Harbinger exhale sharply makes Kaie snort. When she looks over, she watches Vilkas lower his arms to his sides. The man’s voice carries remorse. “—I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

“Can’t change it. Let me tell you something about how we deal with immoralities in my people,” Kaie says, “Anyone who calls themself a Forsworn know there ain’t a perfect pansy among our people. You acknowledge that, you accept that, and you let the roots decide how the shit who wronged you’s gonna be dealt with. Then… you move on. You accept the judgement. You don’t whine or squabble, protest or fight back, because the roots connect us to the water and the water knows which way to push us. What the King in Rags did was something that stunned Vrechinn. Yeah. Shocked a number of Forsworn, I bet. I was _horrified_ once I got to an age where I understood the extent of that betrayal. But—You didn’t hear a word of this from Vrechinn, did ya?”

At the silence that follows, Kaie nods and continues.

“She knows how we are, how the Forsworn are. She knows how important our King is to fighting invaders seizing our lands and killing our people. She knows and respects the roots decision and judgement. That shows you her character. At least—I think it does. One day—I’ll embody that. By my fortieth year—I’ll be wise as Vrechinn and powerful as Maroisa, capable of reaching the water, of passing judgements and advising my people.” The thought brings encouragement and a soft feeling of peace in the woman’s stomach. She nods firmly to her own words, compelled to back up the sentiment in action. She grins after a moment. “—Talking about it—It helps put things into perspective for me. Perhaps you don’t see it that way, Harbinger, but I do. The Forsworn see a picture bigger than gold’s foolery, than an Empire’s failing grasps for control!”

It delights her to see the Harbinger’s stare become one of respect. Vilkas hesitates. “You let your roots decide how society acknowledges criminals. That isn’t something my Companions could do. We have our own… interpretation of justice.”

“Good. We aren’t lookalikes, Harbinger. You’ve seen enough of Karthspire branch to understand we aren’t the same,” Kaie chuckles at the thought. She has zero intention to strut around in the silly yellow armor the man wears. She crosses her arms. “But! Now you know even _more_ ‘bout Karthspire branch, mmm? About the Forsworn. _This_ branch of Forsworn. Consider yourself blessed.”

“I got a question about that. One question,” At Kaie’s nod, the Nord clears his throat and straightens upright. His voice cracks briefly but he states. “—How—You must deal with shit popping up. Right? Things you can’t change. Things you can’t change—But you _want_ to. How do you handle that?” 

“Cry. Scream. The usual.” Ohdon walks back to the two. The Briarheart’s face is masked by his armor. The deer skull is fitted to a helm of beautiful furs.

“That a serious answer?” Vilkas asks.

Kaie sighs. “It _could_ be. But—It could also not be. Ohdon’s just as big a shit as I am.”

“It answers the question, Harbinger. Kaie. We can’t change _shit_. When the roots decide—We abide by that decision. Even if it is not agreed upon in private. We abide by it. Certain things in life are… unfortunate.” Ohdon shrugs.

“How do people live like that?” The Harbinger mutters under his breath. His gaze narrows on Ohdon, but soon shifts to Kaie. “How?”

“How’d you live your life? Breathing, eating, shitting, sleeping? We’re the same, in a sense,” is the sarcastic half of Kaie’s answer. She straightens upright and stretches her legs. She can hear the rain outside begin to lighten. The thunder comes at longer intervals. The woman sucks in a deep breath of crisp air, the scent of the earth after a rainfall thick in her nostrils. Her eyes soften. “It’s about understanding you _can’t_ change shit all the time. When some things are beyond your control—You got to know when to quit. When to move on with your life. The roots keep us in focus—”

“Why fight for the Reach?” The question comes out more sharply than she expects. Kaie stiffens and snaps her head to stare at the man.

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Excuse me?”

“If the roots told you to give up your territory—Would you?” Vilkas pauses.

Kaie growls. Her fists clench. “That wouldn’t _happen._ I know. I’ve asked them enough. I know what they’re like—One day I’ll be a root, pal!”

“Harbinger,” Ohdon interjects before Kaie can jump the man and brawl him for insinuating the roots of Karthspire branch would _ever_ give such asinine orders. The Briarheart looks at Kaie but speaks to Vilkas. “Us of Karthspire branch… and the Forsworn of all branches… We are stubborn, stubborn bastards. Stubborn in spirit! In strength. We are strong. Our existence alone threatens you Nords—"

“There’s an entire Empire out against you,” the Harbinger points out abruptly.

Ohdon shakes his head. “They will lose. We are stubborn, Harbinger. We understand we cannot lift a mountain on our own—But there are things we can change. There are possibilities we can unravel. We focus not on what is certain, but on what remains uncertain. What does a person find when they walk a thousand steps in a random direction? Perhaps—Nothing. But perhaps—A stream, a lake, a valley, a meadow—The person hopes for one of those things. The Forsworn _hope_. It fuels the fire in each of us, and that gives us courage to continue where we know is not yet decided upon by the waters.”

 _Hope._ The sentiment rings in Kaie’s head. She smiles and nods, all anger wrapped away and dissipated beneath the familiar sensation of peace. _Hope for our people. Hope for the Reach. Hope for every little one who enters this world._

“—I tried to have hope. You put your faith in an ideal that may not prosper. Mine didn’t,” Vilkas repeats the words softly. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m weary. I can’t—I can’t keep going like this. Not like this.”

“No one’s gonna make you go to Markarth. Well. No—No, no one’s making you go,” at Ohdon’s stare, Kaie glares at him and snaps. “—We are not _obligated_ to follow the orders of the aspect of Namira, Ohdon. We are not! You said it yourself: she is a valued _guest,_ but she does not determine the fate of others in our judgement.”

“…What are you suggesting, Kaie?” The Briarheart stills. He is tense.

 _Smart._ Kaie almost grins, but she keeps the snarky expression to herself. The woman clears her throat and turns to the Harbinger. She taps a foot loudly, _impatiently,_ until the man opts to look back at her. Her playful brown eyes meet Vilkas’s dark ones with no fear. “You said you’re coming to help bust out my father because it's what Namira wants you to do, yeah? Why’s that? Because you can’t change what’s going on with her? The whole dying thing fucking _sucks,_ I bet.”

It is Vilkas’s turn to freeze and stare. Kaie feels Ohdon gawk at her from the side. She huffs loudly and ignores the latter.

 _“You_ can’t change the rot. _You_ can’t change Namira’s fate. So you’re trying to change someone else’s. You’re trying to do shit for our King because it’s what you wish you could do for Namira. And you know what? I can respect that, making the most of a shitty hand of cards. I respect you, Vilkas, Harbinger of the Companions. I respect you,” Kaie inhales deeply and nods. “Enough that I—I want to extend the same kind of help to you.”

“Kaie—” Ohdon interrupts, but Kaie holds up a hand. The Briarheart shakes his head. “You know you can’t change the aspect’s fate.”

“I know that. _He_ doesn’t want to accept it,” Kaie holds a hand to her mouth to stifle a meager laugh. She stomps a foot impatiently to bring attention back to her. “So. We can’t change the rot. I’ve accepted that. But he’s still trying to hope, Ohdon. Tryna make an impossible certain. Even if it’s a big waste of time—So what? I have time to kill once we get the King in Rags out. Might as well help him find some form of closure, no matter how weird it is.”

 _“You’d help me?”_ The Harbinger looks stunned. It is a fitting expression; Kaie almost laughs at how ridiculous he looks with big, buggy eyes and a mouth hanging ajar.

The woman holds up her hands. She tilts her head to one side and smiles. “Don’t get me wrong—I have no doubt this’s something neither _you_ nor _me_ can change, buddy. But it’s something—I think it’s something you need to get out of your system. It’s looming over you, sucking out your life, taking over your mind. I wouldn’t normally do this—But I respect you as a person. After we get the King in Rags out of Markarth, _alive_ , I’ll help you find the tombs Namira’s spoke of before. I think there’s three of them.”

For a moment, nothing but the soft pitter-patter of faint raindrops and a storm moving into the distance sounds. Kaie maintains her friendly smile. Ohdon does not say a word; he strides to the three’s horses and begins to right the animal’s saddle.

“Then,” Vilkas sounds grateful. The sincerity of the statement makes her grin cheekily at him. The Harbinger glances at the muddied main road before he turns his attention back to Kaie. “We best get a move on. Got a King to save and all that.”


	36. nepos the nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> markarth is a city overrun by silver and blood. vilkas does not like it, but he might come around in enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: there's a pokemon reference hidden in this chapter :D

The city of Markarth is home to notorious silver mines owned and dictated by the esteemed and pompous Silverblood family. The Harbinger has heard of them since his youth. He knows all-too-well the influence of the Silverblood family; during his time as a whelp, he heard many stories of older Silverblood figures whose political opponents met ill fates. Such seemed infallible once. The mess of corruption ingrained in the blood of Nords astounded him. He was so young then; he was so, so naïve even in his distorted perceptions of the world. From the moment the group strides into Markarth, Vilkas makes a note to be careful in all he says or do’s. He does not miss the stare of guards and suspicious city-dwellers.

 _Shameful._ The man thinks as he stops near an open-stall butcher on the far side of the street. _This city is beautiful. Beautiful, but twisted._

His ideal plan involves tracking down the Jarl of Markarth and arranging some sort of _trade_ to free the King in Rags. He knows it won’t work. He needs something more _substantial_ than mere words in exchange for royalty; Vilkas anticipates the Jarl of Markarth has no use for morals like _honor_ or _respect._ If anything, his position as Harbinger of the Companions might draw more suspicion to him. The corruption in Markarth knows what the Harbinger is like, where he stands on certain morals, and the lines in the sand he will not cross. He knows _nothing_ about them beyond small rumors and back-alley talk.

 _How in Oblivion do I do this?_ Vilkas stops at the butcher’s stall and squints at cuts of meat. His stomach grumbles in response.

“How much?” Kaie asks for him.

The man at the stall tilts his head to one side. He’s bald, Vilkas notices, with graying brown hair and suspicious brown eyes. The butcher huffs loudly. “’Pends on the cut and quantity, lady. You got gold? You got my attention.”

It takes less than ten minutes for Kaie to successfully flutter her eyelashes and sequester the man into giving the group a chunk of lamb for free. It doesn’t look exactly like meat, but it is good enough; Vilkas’s stomach is _starving_ and he feels capable of eating anything in that moment, even a man.

Due to the undead nature of Ohdon, the Briarheart warrior has opted to sneak into the city after nightfall. Kaie’s clothes have been swapped out for an old barmaid’s dress in de-saturated earthy hues. Vilkas himself continues to don his dwarven metal; he does not see reason to change from his armor, even with the stares that begin to creep in. The guards themselves don’t seem to care about his armor, so he doesn’t care about what they think of it, but the man does not miss how the guards keep an eye on him and Kaie wherever they go. Whether it is to explore the deeper levels and higher cliffs of the city built into the mountains, or whether it is to stop by the local bar and inquire about the location of the Jarl’s living quarters, the guards all seem keen on monitoring them.

 _Corruption runs rampant here._ Vilkas reminds himself. _I need to watch my back. Be careful. Kind of regret not bringing Ria along now._

“Head up, don’t look so lost in the clouds. People are keeping an eye on ya, ya know.” The woman next to him says sharply. Vilkas ignores Kaie’s remark. Kaie shakes her head and walks ahead of him, though she keeps her voice low. “—We’re gonna go to an inn next. Underneath the overpass there—” She gestures calmly at a stretch of stone structures with a gaping corridor carved through it. Markarth is full of confusing twists and turns left in the ruins of the fallen Dwemer civilization that built the city long ago. Beneath the arching chunk of rock, Vilkas sees a gleam of white fabric standing next to a shut door attached to the underside of the arch. Kaie continues on a rattle of where the inn is, but for a moment Vilkas is briefly distracted by the realization a Vigilant of Stendarr stands next to the strange door.

The man catches his eye. He is a tall broad with hefty, square muscles and a face with equally chiseled cheekbones. The Vigilant’s eyes are sullen and sunk back into the sockets of his face. He looks exhausted in a way that reminds Vilkas of how Vinci was in the past. The Harbinger lets Kaie walk ahead in her ramblings while he stops near the Vigilant and pauses. “A follower of Stendarr.”

“And you—A Companion, are you not? You carry yourself like one of Jorrvaskr!” The man greets him with a note of caution. He doesn’t look like the kind to have silver weapons but it’s better to be safe than sorry; Vilkas takes time to straighten upright and make himself big and imposing.

“What’s the door?” The Harbinger gestures beyond the Vigilant to the door in the rock. “Looks like it goes directly into the—”

“The rock, yes, I _know_ that.” The haughtiness irritates Vilkas. He doesn’t let it show as the Vigilant continues. “Tell me, tell me, Companion—Do you know anything about this house? _This house?_ This one right here!”

“…No. I’m not local.” Vilkas sighs. He hears Kaie call for him from up ahead, but the man ignores her. Vilkas looks at the door in the stone. “You wanna explain it or waste my time?”

The Vigilant sighs deeply. His eyes dim a bit more, if it is even possible to look so downtrodden, and the Viiglant turns to face the door. He gestures at it with quick, jerky motions. “—Damn it all, it is like—Like everyone in this city has amnesia! I,” the Vigilant glances back at Vilkas and looks him up and down. “I am with the Vigil of Stendarr. I am Vigilant Tyranus, sworn enemy to the daedra, the undead, and all forms of it which manifests in our realm! You, Companion, what is your name?”

 _The Silver Hands were once disgraced Vigilants of Stendarr… but they seemed like a step up. He’s a mess._ The Harbinger grimaces. He knows the guards likely pieced together which Companion he was by the time he walked beyond Markarth’s gate—But he does not think the same of the locals, not yet. He does not want to spill the beans before he has a grasp on the situation. He grits his teeth and looks to the side, wishing bitterly in his head he had a helmet that fit his hair. “—My name’s not important. I’m a Companion, just as you thought.”

“I understand. Anonymity is a virtue I respect. Certain things cannot be exposed in the light—For the good of all, the majority, yes, yes! Companion, then,” Tyranus jabs a thick, pale finger at the Harbinger. “I ask you hear me out! Listen to my plea. The Vigil of Stendarr believes this place to be home to Daedra worshippers. Used in evil rites and so forth. It must be cleansed, yet none of the guards of this forsaken city dare help me on my noble quest. Will you take up arms with me against evil, Companion?”

“Uh.” Vilkas glances at the side. Kaie’s sunk into the shadows of the overpass, waiting with one foot impatiently tapping against the cobblestone road. The man looks at Tyranus. “…I can’t. Not right now. Got important Companion things to do.”

“Ah. Ah. Oh. Right. Yes.” Tyranus rubs his chin. The man’s enthusiasm fades back into an empty, downcast look. He averts his gaze. “Apologies for… interrupting your _business,_ Companion. Here I thought you were one of… No, no, nevermind. Ignore me. Go on your way!”

The Harbinger squints. He moves stray bangs out of his eyes and crosses his arms. Vilkas does not find enjoyment in the passive-aggressive display; it reminds him of how petty his niece and nephew can become when the two feel especially childish. “—It’s not _personal._ But if you’re that desperate for help—”

Just like that—The Vigilant’s eyes light up. He spins on his heels and makes to grab Vilkas by the shoulders, looking at the man with big, bulging eyes. “—Yes! Yes, I am desperate, I _am,_ Stendarr’s mercy—This house must be cleansed!”

“I won’t do… that. Cleansing.” Vilkas shoves the man’s hands off him. He grits his teeth and jabs a finger at Tyranus’s chest. “None of that. _You_ do your Vigil thing. I’ll… tag along. Keep an eye out. That kind of thing. But not right now. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” He glances at Kaie.

The woman is not amused by his offer of assistance to random individuals.

 _But that’s what Companions do._ Vilkas tries to convey in his gaze, a deep umber. _We help people._

“Tonight! When it is dark, yes, when the worshippers are most likely to come and feed…” Tyranus waves him off.

Kaie is not amused in the slightest. The shaman waits until the two have walked beyond the overpass, up a set of stairs, and around a curve of the mountain’s cliff face before she pulls Vilkas to the side and hisses at him. “Why are you helpful?! We’ll draw attention!”

“I already draw attention.” Vilkas remarks. He gestures beyond the two to a guard station at the top of one cliff. A Hold guard in full armor turns away quickly, but Vilkas has no doubt the individual was watching them.

 _Or watching me._ The Harbinger thinks.

“Fair enough,” the shaman releases him and sighs. She runs a hand through messy brown curls and looks over at the Harbinger. “Okay, so. We’re not actually going to an inn; I changed my mind. We’re staying with a friend of mine. You don’t know him. Call him _N._ Be respectful. Don’t make fun of his… nose.” It is spoken sincerely to the point Vilkas wonders just what kind of friend this ‘N’ is.

Perhaps a naïve, bumbling person with hopes and dreams for everyone to get along? The kind to idealize a future without conflict? It is a nice thought, admittedly. Perhaps a charismatic individual capable of rallying a group of people around a single cause. The man’s brows furrow. _Peace. Love. Prosperity. Harmony. All that. Not a bad ideal, but unrealistic._

“C’mon, his house is all the way at the other end of this maze of a mess they call a city.” Kaie voices her complaint loudly as she leads him higher and higher, up long stairwells carved into the cliffs until the duo are several hundred feet above where the initial rocky overpass was. The woman stops at the end of a row of doors leading into the rock. Windows have been carved out of the cliff face, with a dark and tinted glassy substance used for the windowpanes.

Kaie knocks briskly on an old door. A carved slot moves to the side and the face of a Breton man pops into view. The man’s eyes widen and the slot slams shut. A muffled voice beyond the door calls out. “Nepos! _Nepos!_ A member of Karthspire branch has arrived!”

“They’re Forsworn?” Vilkas whispers softly, taking care to not give anything away to the guard four doors down from him and Kaie.

Kaie grins sheepishly. “What’d ya expect? They’re… Uh. Connected. Not to Karthspire branch. To another.”

“Does that mean they’re actually friends? Or potential foes?” The Harbinger frowns.

The shaman opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of locks being opened beyond the door. A moment later, the door itself swings in and the duo are shuffled forward into a grand parlor. It is far more spacious and cozier than Vilkas anticipates; he finds the room large and orderly, with everything in its place and a set of decadent cushioned seats facing a glorious fireplace. When Vilkas looks, he spies two hallways going deeper into the mountain, with intricate torches attached to divets in the wall. Above the torches is a bizarre set of pipes; it takes a moment for Vilkas to realize the metal tubing is funneling smoke away from the living quarters. It’s a form of ventilation.

“Sit there. Nepos will speak with you shortly.” The voice comes from the individual who opened the door. A tall Breton man shuts the door behind the two and takes to locking seven different locks one-after-another, each more-and-more complex and confusing than the last. It takes three minutes to lock them all.

Vilkas follows Kaie to the fireplace. When she gestures at a chair, he sits. She sits opposite him and tucks a loose strand of her curly brown hair behind an ear. “That’s Tynan. Nice fellow.”

“Your presence here baffles me, Kaie.” The Breton responds as he walks out of the parlor and down one hallway. He emerges a moment later with a tray of tea, a kettle, and a set of beautiful ceramic cups. The man walks to a table between the seating arrangements and sets the tray down. Up close, Vilkas sees Tynan is a muscular and imposing figure with coarse hands and dark, brooding eyes. Tynan stares at Kaie. The man hesitates before asking, “You know the Jarl would have you in chains if he caught word who your kin is.”

“Well. They won’t.” Kaie crosses his arms and sits back in her chair.

“Why are you here?” Tynan frowns and pours tea for her and for Vilkas.

The Harbinger knows better than to say no; Vilkas begrudgingly accepts the tea and sips at it. It has a dull, dry flavor. He sets it back on the table immediately and ignores Tynan’s look. Kaie clears her throat and nods at the tray. “I appreciate your hospitality, Tynan. You should know why we’re here. It’s the same why _you’re_ here.”

“Aye, Kaie. We are all here for the King. Your father is… a man with great value among our people.” From one of the halls, the one Tynan didn’t go down, comes the voice of a tired elder. An old man with a large walking stick and long white beard hobbles down and over to them. He lacks hair but carries the same brown hue in his eyes as Kaie. It clicks in Vilkas’ head just how the two know each other, just as Kaie grins ear-to-ear and leaps to her feet to greet the man.

“Ya know, you can call him your _brother_ , Nepos.” The shaman speaks with a note of amusement.

“N” laughs aloud. Tynan stiffens but Nepos pats his arm quickly, “No need for concern! Put a smile on that face, will you, Tynan? Go grab the others. Tell Uaile to bring a change of clothes for my niece and her guest. And Morven—Have him run to the butchers, pick up a nice hunk of meat for our meal tonight. A member of Karthspire branch graces our halls; we must show consideration for our kin!”

“Aye, sir.” Tynan nods and backs away, scuttling down another hall and disappearing.

Vilkas finds Nepos’s old eyes land on him. He feels himself fidget. The old man’s eyes are scrutinizing and cautious, wary and wise all wrapped in one. He clears his throat. “So—You’re N. Kaie’s… friend.”

“And you are the… Harbinger.” Nepos says the word and the mood in the room plummets immediately.

Kaie snorts. “By the et’Ada, the look on your face, Vilkas—”

“How do you know?” The man stares at Nepos.

“Why wouldn’t I know? That is the _real_ question! I know because I know things, Harbinger. You are the Harbinger, counselor of the Companions in Whiterun. You have a brother, Farkas. A brother-in-law, Rune Dragonborn. A niece and nephew, Lucia and Alesan. By the aghast stare—I am right, am I not? I know I am, because I am Nepos the Nose who knows things,” The elderly man takes a seat next to Kaie’s. He leans back in the seat and crosses his arms. “You’d think a Nord would learn not to underestimate the reach of the Forsworn.”

Kaie holds a hand to her mouth and laughs heartily. “Good one, good one!”

“Ah, but all jokes aside—I assume you understand a bit of our culture, Harbinger? Honesty is imperative to success! If you lie to me,” Nepos stares Vilkas down. The Harbinger feels his stomach do flips but he refuses to look away. The old man grins crookedly. “—I will make sure you live to regret it.”

“I understand.” Vilkas nods slowly.

“Good, good! Then we are on good terms, no? You are here with Kaie! She is here for one thing and one thing only. It is time to free the King in Rags and knock the heads of the Silverblood family off their shoulders. A good show of blood,” the old man chortles in delight at the thought. “We’ll turn their silver into rubies by the time we get ‘er done, won’t we?”

“We better.” Kaie’s grin is infectious and nauseating all in one.

Scuffling comes from one hall. A woman with a thin frame and wide, plump lips walks to the three in the parlor. She is dressed modestly, but her face is adorned in make-up to the point she almost looks dead. The woman hands Kaie a folded garment and Kaie makes a show out of unfolding it and gasping happily.

“Oh, this will do nicely! Enchanted, I assume?” The shaman raises a brow.

The newcomer smiles politely. Her voice is sincere and sweet in response, a sheer contrast to the questionable make-up. “I have never done us wrong. Neither Karthspire nor Druadach.”

The words bring another smile to Kaie’s lips. She walks over and wraps arms around the woman. “—It’s good to see you, Uiale.”

“I’ve missed you,” Uiale says quietly. When Kaie draws back, Vilkas pauses and notes the faint blush on Uiale’s cheeks, even beyond the powdery pigments covering the lady’s skin. When Uiale turns to Vilkas, Vilkas feels color drain from his face at being caught staring. He averts his gaze. Uiale huffs and taps a foot loudly until the Harbinger returns to looking at her. She has a soft face and white hair. Her eyes are a strange blue. In her arms is another set of clothes, a lovely beige tunic with slacks to match. Uiale tilts her head to one side. “They should fit. You look to be Torven’s size…”

“Torven best be readying to run to the butcher. Hogni packs up earlier and earlier these days!” Nepos grits his teeth.

“Oh! Oh, no, he doesn’t need to go—We got something on the way. Vilkas?” Kaie looks at the man.

Vilkas does not enjoy being the center of attention. He quickly thanks Uiale for the clothes before shifting his gaze back to Nepos. The man’s nose is not nearly so prominent as Kaie made it out to be before; the Harbinger questions if she was messing with his head or genuine in the words. He looks around for the wrapped chunk of meat only to freeze and groan loudly. The man sighs. “We didn’t bring it. Kaie.”

“What? I thought you grabbed it from the cart—You mean I wasted all that gold?!” Kaie throws her hands into the air.

“I’ll make sure Torven gets to Hogni’s right away.” Uiale bows politely before turning and shuffling off.

When the three are left alone, Nepos huffs loudly. He kicks off his boots and squirms in his seat until his large, oversized robes and indulgent furs are settled. The man grins ear-to-ear. “Well! Harbinger. Let me welcome you to Markarth. Enjoy what little pleasantries are available here. The rest’s gone to shit and the world may one day follow. Must say—I didn’t expect a Companion to agree to a jailbreak. That threw me off.”

“How do you know these things?” The Harbinger presses for an answer.

Nepos snorts. “Vrechinn sent me a letter.”

“As she should have.” Kaie says, chipper than before.

Vilkas grimaces. He does not like the situation. Kaie’s behavior irritates him. He crosses his arms and looks at the fireplace, seeking solace in the dancing flames. He finds none. His mind is still too overwhelmed by everything that has transpired the past few weeks to settle. The man begins to fidget uncomfortably. “I’m here to free your King. I need to know what it entails.”

“Right to the point, not much a talker, is he? Hmph, glad you didn’t show up and tell me you married the man! I might’ve knocked him over the edge of that cliff myself,” Nepos jabs Kaie in the arm.

She snorts and shakes her head. “Like you could lift him, old man. He’s wearing dwarven metal. Pretty heavy.”

“It’s a good thought, no?” Nepos says. The elderly man turns to Vilkas and squints at him. “What did you say just then, Harbinger? _What it entails?_ What wouldn’t it entail? Use your imagination! There’s a mine, and our King is in it. The Silverblood family has it under lock and key. You won’t get him out by talking, though I’d pay to see you try.”

“Do you have a map of Cidna Mine?” Vilkas tries an alternative angle. Maybe he can find a way to peacefully break the damn King out without going to the Jarl. Or causing massive bloodshed. He does not want to murder individuals more than what is necessary.

To his credit, Nepos nods slowly. He sits up and calls. “Eola!”

“I don’t think I know that one.” Kaie says, pouring herself a cup of fresh tea. She pours a second for Nepos and hands it over as steps bound from down the left hall and stop abruptly in the parlor. When Vilkas looks up, he sees a woman Kaie’s age with a gingery, red-brown hair framing her pale skin in tussled locks. The woman is dressed much like Uiale, with a modest gown of earthy hues adorning her figure. Eola, Vilkas recalls Nepos saying, strides forward and smiles politely from one individual to the next. 

But the woman’s eyes startle him. Vilkas finds Eola’s gaze narrows on his form immediately. She does not have the same set of brown eyes like Kaie or Nepos. She has one gray eye and a thick mass of flesh over her left eye. The possible explanations baffle him; he cannot surmise a situation that leaves her walking away with one functioning eye and one eye left a mangle of scar tissue. Eola sees his stares and grins sheepishly. “What? Taken aback by my _beauty,_ sir? I know I’m a sight to see but you don’t have to be so obvious of it. Give a woman a little chase, would you?”

The Harbinger feels his cheeks heat up. “Sorry—Sorry. I shouldn’ve stared.”

“I don’t really care, truth be told. People stare. So what? I can stare _back._ ” The woman remarks dryly.

 _She’s got sass._ Vilkas thinks. He makes a note to let Kaie handle talking with her in the future.

Nepos clears his throat. He smiles widely at Vilkas, then at Kaie. “This is Eola. She’s new to you both, but she’s protected me faithfully since first being taken in by Draudach branch. She is very devout to the et’Ada.”

“I would be a sham if I was not!” Eola hums aloud. She puts her hands on her hips and looks from Nepos to the tea tray. “Do you want me to clear the table, sir?”

“Not yet—I believe my niece has an appetite for tea.” Nepos remarks, with Kaie huffing and puffing as she finishes her third cup and pours herself a fourth. Nepos glances sideways at Vilkas. “…but, Eola, fetch me the blueprints of Cidna Mine. The Harbinger here is to help free our King.”

“He’s the Harbinger? Of the Companions?” Eola’s good eye widens. She clasps her hands together and bows clumsily. “I am sorry—For—For sassing you—Harbinger!”

“No need for that. Save respect for King Madanach.” Kaie snorts between sips of her drink.

Vilkas grunts. “It doesn’t matter.”

In the time it takes Eola to find the maps and return, Vilkas catches sight of another Breton man coming and going between rooms adjacent the second hall. He presumes the tanned broad to be Torven, deducing it is the only individual he has yet to meet face-to-face. Tynan returns from the butcher just as Eola returns to the parlor. She gives Tynan a flashy smile and wink before striding to Nepos and handing the parchments over. Nepos nods in thanks and unrolls them. He hands them to Vilkas; the Harbinger turns them over and squints.

Cidna Mine is a lot smaller than he thought.

“This… isn’t as bad as I thought.” Vilkas muses aloud. He rubs his chin and glances up at Nepos. The old man watches him with a fixation for the slightest response. “You’ve mapped out guard patrols well. Is this all of them?”

“More or less. But they change, sometimes.” Eola answers for Nepos.

Nepos’ scathing glare makes the woman shrink back and hurry away to a broom. She begins to sweep while Nepos answers Vilkas’s question directly, “She is the one who helped obtain that information, Harbinger. But it is not hers to give. It is a gift from _me_ to aid you in freeing our King. Use it wisely; the guards there should not change unless it is a special occasion.”

“Noted.”

“Supper’s about done!” The voice of Uiale calls from the right hall. The noise makes Vilkas’s stomach growl loudly; he fidgets uncomfortable from Kaie’s snort and Nepos’s hearty laughter.

“You want a meal, son? Let us give you one fit for a king!” Nepos says. He stands, grins, and gestures for everyone to follow him.

Down the right hall is a series of doors. The first one on the right opens into an area converted into a functioning kitchen, with ventilation providing an outlet for the smoke rising from wood-burning stovetops and a fire pit in the center. The kitchen reeks of delicious spices to the point Vilkas feels his mouth begin to water. Beyond it, the next room on the right contains a fine dining chamber with a long table and beautiful, ivory candles providing a somber atmosphere. The table is set with multiple kinds of plates, bowls, and cutlery. A glass made of what appears to be white marble sits at each placemat. Vilkas finds himself feeling increasingly out of place in light of the finery presented in Nepos’s dining hall. Yet when the man gestures, he obliges in sitting next to Nepos at the head of the table. Kaie sits directly across Vilkas.

As the others enter the room and carry in aromatic dishes, Vilkas feels himself grow more and more hungry. He swallows nervously and stares in anticipation as Uiale brings a pitcher of wine chilled by magic, Tynan a tall pot of steaming stew, Eola baked pastries with a crust that is as crisp as it is golden-brown, and Torven enters last. He has a platter of pheasant prepared. It smells so tempting that Vilkas briefly contemplates jumping out of his chair and seizing the meal then and there. He keeps his impulses in check and waits with growing impatience.

When they are all seated, Nepos stands. He smiles broadly. “A toast—To our future! To Karthspire! Druadach! To King Madanach and our roots!”

“To the King!” Kaie declares. The others follow suit. Vilkas is the only who stays quiet, but the rest of the group does not seem to care about his silence. Perhaps they too are fixated on getting to the point and shoving food into their gullets; Vilkas knows he is desperate to try everything.

The meal is better than all his expectations. Perhaps it is magically altered, or maybe it is mixed with plants specifically to charm the taste buds into euphoria, but every bite, every spoonful, and every new chunk of bread or pheasant leaves his mind in a near-orgasmic state of bliss. The cooking is phenomenal. There’s not a hint of something overdone or burnt. The flavors pair well, with rosemary brushing the pheasant and being followed by a tantalizing leafy green he’s never heard of called basil. He has three plates of the pheasant before Kaie begins making remarks about cutting him off. Nepos slaps him on the back and applauds his stomach.

The evening passes in a blur of decadent, homecooked delights.

“And this is your bedchamber, Harbinger,” Eola stops at a door later that evening. She smiles politely at the man to open it. Vilkas stiffens at the realization and fumbles with the door handle before pushing the door open and stepping inside a dim, quaint guest chamber. It is bare, with little beyond a cot, dresser, armoire, and night table, but it will do. The stone bed looks warm enough compared to some nights he’s spent sleeping outside in the cold, especially during his days as a whelp in the Companions.

The man nods. “Thanks.”

“Anything else you need?” The woman does not leave, something that irritates him. He wants to sit and think, but he knows he must be polite. She is doing her job; it is imperative she is thorough—For both the sake of Nepos’s hospitality, and the fact he may be so oblivious as to miss something important.

Vilkas shrugs. He looks back at Eola. “I don’t think so. Thanks, again. And…” The man trails off. He debates whether to say it, but decides it is best to set the record straight. He looks Eola in the eye. “I’m sorry for bringing up your eye before. Wasn’t right of me.”

“I don’t mind. Honestly.” The woman shakes her head.

“Still. Let me… Let me know if—I can make it up to you.” The Harbinger bites his lip. He _still_ has to spend the evening tracking down the bizarre Vigilant from before, and he does not want to add more things to the list of shit he has to get done, but it seems like the right thing to do.

Eola pauses. She begins to spin a strand of ginger hair around her finger. “Well—If you’re _offering_ —I was actually a little curious about you, Harbinger. Not every day you see someone of the honorary Companions out here in the shithole that is Markarth.”

“It’s not by choice.” Vilkas grimaces.

The woman offers a sympathetic look. “Sorry to hear.”

“No need. It is what it is. I’m just…” Vilkas grits his teeth. He feels his body tense up. By the Nine, he misses Vinci more than he can sum up in words. He doesn’t want to be _there,_ but he will do anything if it is attached to the tiny string of hope keeping him wrapped around the thought of _her_. His talk with Kaie has left hope in his heart. He either wants to find a way to help Vinci, or he wants closure. He wants the former, preferably, but the man does not find that a subject appropriate to blurt out to a woman he barely knows.

Eola’s eye holds what he thinks is compassion. He’s good at reading people, but she’s a hard one when a portion of her face is hidden by the scar tissue. Vilkas meets her gaze slowly. She nods at him to go on.

“I have a friend. Namira,” the Harbinger glances away. “She’s… You know, don’t you? The aspect of Namira. She’s… I know her. Knew her. Something. _Something!_ Damnit.” He curses softly and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes clench shut.

“You—You know the aspect of Namira? That’s…” Eola’s voice sounds utterly shocked. Her surprise is genuine. When he looks back at her, he sees her good eye is wide and eager for more. “That’s—That’s incredible—I never thought—I mean—”

“Knew. I guess. We parted ways,” Vilkas reiterates the sentiment with a grunt. He crosses his arms. “Talos guide me. She’s making a big mistake, Eola. She’ll get herself killed. She thinks she’s protectin’ me! She’s just runnin’ into danger!” The man throws his hands into the air, unable to stay still a moment further. His emotions have gotten the best of him again. He cannot stop the tangent that follows, nor all the words spilling out and sharing the tale of him and Namira and how everything went to complete _shit_. Perhaps it is wrong to speak such private details, but Vilkas has had no one to turn to and he needs an outlet. He is a dam ready to burst if he doesn’t talk about _her_ , and talk he does.

He talks. And he talks. And he talks. Even when Eola attempts to excuse herself, the man blabs on. When Eola _does_ excuse herself and when Vilkas is left alone in his bedchamber, he finds himself lost in a mess of thoughts that seem and feel endless. He has so much of himself he never got to show Namira. He has so many feelings he wanted to express, so much adoration and affection to shower her in, and so much need to demonstrate. She always spoke of how he made her feel safe; he never took the time to tell her how utterly peaceful and at ease _she_ made _him_. So much left unsaid, left undone, left, left, left… She left him.

She left him to go do something fucking selfish. It is his fault for telling her to be more selfish. If she dies, Vilkas does not know if he can forgive himself. _I’m still a mess. Even now. Even after I’ve been alive for forty years I’m still a fucking mess._

The man does not have a journal to write in. He makes a note to ask Nepos for one in the morning. For now, he doffs his armor, stows his bags to the side, and undresses to his breeches. He climbs into the stone bed and settles into the fur sheets and blankets covering it. His eyes flicker shut; the thought of finding the Vigilant of Stendarr all but leaves his mind when exhaustion suddenly takes hold like a massive wave and washes him out to a sea of sleep and dreams.


	37. the process of justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> investigating an abandoned house in the middle of the night with a religious zealot is not the best idea the harbinger has ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically under the empire's control igmund is jarl of markarth but y'know  
> this story doesn't adhere to the finest of canon anyways (shrug emoji)
> 
> warning for:  
> -implications of murder  
> -implications of past child abuse neglect murder  
> -dissociation

The world is a spring meadow: an unknown place in what he wants to believe is Whiterun Hold, with beautiful, swaying trees and large green canopies framing the sky. Wildflowers curl up against his feet with each step. He finds the world is much larger, or himself much smaller, and it becomes clear exactly _how_ it all makes sense when he sees the faces of individuals lost to the darkness. Dozens and dozens of children he both knew, befriended, and watched wither or rot away, hundreds of faces who never reached the light, the mess of calm, peaceful figures playing and enjoying the meadow’s serenity alerts him to the fact it is a dream. He is a child again. Specifically, he is an adolescent in a dream full of dead children and memories of the past spun into pleasantries.

He does not see his brother, neither as an adult nor as a meek boy sprung from a cage. When he examines his clothes, he finds himself a youth with short, umber hair and a comfortable tunic. A belt is snug around his waist. His slacks and shoes fit perfectly. It is a dream after all—He does not have to worry about things like measurements when everything works itself out in his subconscious. Vilkas finds himself relaxing as the dream slowly trudges on; the brief respite from the harshness of reality is badly needed.

There are occasion wildlife wandering the meadow of deceased children and Vilkas. Sometimes, he sees a hare in the distance, or a white stag with fierce antlers begging to be hunted. He watches birds flit across the sky, he observes small fish swimming merrily in the stream currents, and he hears the buzz of bees meandering about in their quest for pollen. The voices of the children of darkness sound faint and distant. It is the only thing off about the meadow; no matter how much he tries to focus, Vilkas cannot make out what the children of darkness say. He knows someone must be speaking because the mumbling sounds softly in his mind, but he cannot make out definite words or syllables. He gives up on trying to discern what the dream children say and eventually starts a walk around the outer perimeter of the meadows.

In his dream, the meadow is flanked on all sides by a dark forest. The woods are not intimidating but they are a warning: there is danger in the depths of the unknown. The only light that exists is the _certainty_ of the meadows. There his dream is cozy, it is warm, and it brings him the peace he desperately seeks. It is the way things _should_ be, where one does not act irrationally and jump to action as he does in the waking world. He finds himself thinking of his own flaws in that regard.

For a man of forty years, he is a mess. Dreaming of himself as a youth does not change that. But he can pretend, and pretend he does, that he is capable of reining in the complexities and facets of the past and its grip on him in the present. Vilkas is good at pretending to be okay when he still faces struggles and when the Daedra of the past come crawling out of the darkness to remind him he was once helpless.

 _But not right now. Not right now._ The thought is comforting. He soothes himself by wrapping his mind in the prospect of temporary relief. Vilkas shuts his eyes and stops on the outer edge of the meadow. His body relaxes to the ambience of the light as he hears a song.

 _“One day… we’ll be free…”_ It hits him like a bucket of icy water thrown on him.

The youth stills. Color drains from his face. He mouths the words as they come, the song burned into the back of his memories more deeply than anything the Silver Hand ever did.

 _“Running through the trees…”_ The voice calls softly. It is familiar. He’s heard it before. He knows the voice. He is certain, though he cannot think of names. The youth stares at the shadows of the woods and hesitates.

 _Do I stay? Do I go?_ He can’t decide, because it is an uncertainty and he _knows_ the unknown will lead him astray.

But the voice calls. The song beckons, _“Full of life… Full of life…”_

It is Leilani’s song.

The youth takes a step from the light. Coldness pierces his skin and goosebumps erupt over his arms and legs as Vilkas takes a wary step into the woods. The canopies, though a verdant evergreen from the outside, appear dull and dreary on the inside, as if all the life has been sucked out of them. Vilkas shivers but does not turn back.

“I’m here!” He calls out to the woods, voice a mess of disoriented pitches and tones in the dream’s atmosphere. “I’m here! Hello? Who’s singing?”

 _“If the nighttime comes… and we gotta run…”_ The voice continues, never once pausing to offer a response. Vilkas swallows nervously. Even in the dream, he feels nausea creep into his stomach as he begins to walk and clamber through the woods.

He does not know where he is going.

The voice doesn’t halt. _“—Look for each other and wait for a sun—"_

It is eerily familiar. The name is on the tip of his tongue, a breath and a half away, yet Vilkas cannot dare speak let alone breathe it in the dark woods. He fears what may happen if he says it aloud; he fears what power it might hold or invoke. He fears a lot. His fears and guilts over what he survived in his childhood has not left.

But the voice calls to him, not in name but in song, _“When I got to go… If it’s dark… If you’re alone…”_

 _Look to the stars where the spirits call home._ The youth thinks the rest of the line. His eyes feel _pulled_ upward. They widen; his dark hazel irises stare in shock at what is not a forest canopy but an expanse of glowing lights shooting across a celestial canvas. It stretches as far as the eye can see: the forest trees and forest floor are visible, yet the woods eventually fade away into the endless horizon of what he can only assume to be the heavens. Vilkas feels like shrinking where he stands as a presence fills the area and begins to engage with his astral form. His dream self cannot move when tiny orbs of light flutter from the heavens and vibrate in the air around his head. He wants to clamp hands over his ears but his body doesn’t budge as the voice blares out in his mind, louder than before:

 _“You’ll find me there… Looking for our song—”_ The words wash over him and leave him trembling in awe and fear, melancholy and warmth. The coldness of the forest is wiped clean and replaced with comfort, easing away some of his worries while provoking new ones. As the orbs of light dance their way to a nearby tree trunk, they suddenly stop and come to a rest while the last line of the song fades out, _“In the trees… In the trees…”_

The voices pauses. Vilkas stares.

Then—The orbs begin to vibrate. A sad whisper follows. _“But how’d rest of song go, Lani?”_

 _Lani?_ Vilkas almost asks.

It clicks a second later. _Leilani. This is a spirit talking about Leilani. But there’s only one person who sings the song besides her and me._

“Vinci?” The Harbinger dares to choke out the name. His entire body tenses when the orbs freeze in place and dim in luminosity. Vilkas does not know if that is a yes or no, so he tries again. “Vinci… Vincint? Vincint Whitemane?”

 _“You’re not mama. And not Leilani!”_ The same ethereal voice speaks with childish connotations. The orbs slow down in their vibrations and begin to drift with short, jerky motions around the forest floor. It takes a moment for Vilkas to realize the sound of someone _pacing_ fills his mind. The spirit walks.

“Wait!” The Harbinger tries again. He bites his lip and looks around the shadowed grounds of the dream. There is nothing around him that can help. He needs to say something. He can’t let the soul wander, especially when the rest of the children of darkness are nearby. At the least—He ought to try and guide the lost child to the light. That’s how he imagines a religious fable would go; Vilkas has grown more faithful in the past six years.

To his relief, the orbs stop moving. The spirit says nothing.

Vilkas sucks in a deep breath and manages a whisper, “The line—The line you—You’re looking for. I know it.”

 _“You know mama’s song?”_ The spirit sounds confused, but if the soul is truly that of a young, murdered boy, then Vilkas imagines confusion is somewhat a good response.

The Harbinger shifts his weight from one leg to the other. In the dream, his astral form does not have shoes. He feels crunchy leaves and thin grasses press against his feet while he struggles to find the courage and sing, _“One day we’ll be free.”_

 _“That’s it. Ma’s song!”_ The orbs react quicker than before. The spirit is in his face in a second; the lights bounce back-and-forth through the air so quickly Vilkas feels his stomach churn and flip trying to keep track of it all. _“How do you know mama’s song? Do you know ma? I’m lookin’ for mama. Looking for Leilani. Ma wants me to keep her safe.”_

“Vincint Whitemane.” Vilkas breathes the name again. He feels horrible shakes begin in his palms, but he finds the strength to clench them into tight fists and keep the rest of his body from breaking into shakes. The Harbinger inhales deeply. He stares at the orbs of light. “I’m… Vilkas. I’m a friend of your sister.”

 _“Leilani! Lani! You know her?”_ The spirit pauses. _“I’m her brother. I have to… I got to keep her safe. She cries a lot. Gets scared. I don’t want her to be scared. It’s bad.”_

“It is, isn’t it?” Vilkas averts his gaze when his entire mind begins to pound from looking too deeply into the spirit’s light.

 _“Bad. Bad. Very bad. I don’t want it bad. Not for Lani. She’s not brave,”_ the soul of Vincint Whitemane goes on. _“But that’s okay! I’m not very brave. Not. I get scared easily. But I got to be brave now. Ma asked me to! Told me to run. Told us to run. To…”_

The orbs begin to flicker and dim in light. Vilkas’ stomach drops in his chest. He swallows. “Vincint. I—Have you seen her here? Recently?”

This time, the answer does not come right away. Vilkas fears the spirit to have departed and left him altogether; it feels like an eternity passes before the faint outlines of orbs of light begin to move again. The spirit’s voice comes out soft and sad. _“No… Not here. Never here. I look for her a lot.”_

 _She’s not here. She’s not in this afterlife. Not yet._ It brings a tiny glimmer of hope to the Harbinger’s mind.

_“You looking for Leilani too? Why? You aren’t from our village. Do ya know mama? Uncle?”_

“I knew your uncle once,” He answers with honesty, because it is what the spirit deserves. Vilkas fights off the melancholy of memories of the late Harbinger and carries on talking. His voice isn’t soft anymore. He finds the courage to speak at a normal level, and his words echo across the forest nearby and the heavens above. “I didn’t know your mother. But I know—Leilani. Your sister. She’s my friend. I’m looking for her, actually. It’s why I asked if you saw her recently.”

 _“You are, too?”_ The spirit sounds surprised. _“Not sure why you look here… I look here all the time. Leilani’s good at hide-and-seek. Can’t find her. Never found her. I miss her. I miss ma. I miss uncle. It’s dark here.”_

Vincint’s words spur a thought to rise in Vilkas’s head. He hesitates, then decides asking is more important than staying quiet. The Harbinger inhales deeply. “—Why are—You looking out here? It’s… It doesn’t feel like a nice place to be. It seems… dead.”

 _Dead is an understatement._ The Harbinger keeps the thought to himself.

The orbs twitch. Vilkas does not know what it means, but he imagines the spirit trying to shrug or fidget.

 _“Everyone else stays in light. Light’s… good. But she’s not in light. Not with grass. Not by stream. Where is she? Lani! Leilani!”_ the spirit’s orbs flicker out and reappear further away a moment later, as if the soul has begun to look around for his sister once more.

Vilkas feels cold sweat on his brow and the back of his neck. It brings a horribly deep ache to his chest to see Vincint Whitemane so invested in trying to find his sister. Vilkas knows Vincint will not find her—At least, not yet. Not if Leilani Whitemane is merged with a Daedric Prince. Vincint Whitemane subjects himself to actions entailing fear and discomfort for the sake of finding a spirit that _isn’t there._

“Vincint—Vincint. Can I—Could you go back to the light? Please? To the meadows. The grass. The other kids,” When Vilkas talks, he finds himself not a child further but a man. He wears the same apparel, though his dream self wears a tunic and breeches fitting a fully-grown Nord opposed to a young boy. The Harbinger kneels near the orbs of light and stares at the dim glow emitted. “I don’t know what this is—Or—Where we are—But these forests aren’t happy. They’re… They aren’t right.”

 _“But I got to find Lani. Ma asked me to watch her! Look after her! She’s scared. She’s a scaredy-cat. Always jumping at bugs. Hides behind me. Need to find her.”_ The orbs say with increasing worry, though they never lose their disembodied quality.

 _She’s not like that anymore._ Vilkas almost blurts out. He holds his tongue. He needs to approach it like how one would an actual child—because Vincint Whitemane _is_ an actual child, albeit a dead one who met a terrible end in the depths of the darkness. The Harbinger inhales deeply and calms his nerves before offering, “What if—If I look here, Vincint? And you—You look in the meadows. In the light.”

The lack of immediate response makes Vilkas wonder if the ghost considers his suggestion.

 _“I dunno…”_ the orbs begin to vibrate and shake in the air. _“She gets scared. I got to sing her ma’s song. It always makes her feel better.”_

“I know the song. I’ll sing it to her if I find her.” Vilkas offers.

 _“But you got to watch her too. Keep her not scared. Make sure she’s okay. I miss her. I miss ma. I don’t want her to be like mama. She got to be okay. Happy. Not scared. Okay?”_ The ghost reiterates the sentiment over and over, but the worry never leaves his voice.

“Hey,” the Harbinger pauses. Vilkas manages his best smile for the spirit. “I—I promise, okay? I’ll… I’ll watch over your sister for you. Okay?”

 _“Keep her not scared!”_ The ghost cries out. _“Got to be happy! Not like mama!”_

“Not scared. Happy. I’ll do what I can—” but the man sees the spirit’s orbs begin to shake violently. He frowns and holds up his hands. “Hey—Hey. I promise, okay? I’ll—I’ll protect her—Keep her happy—And safe—And I’ll… I’ll keep darkness away from her. None of it’s gonna take her. Not her. By the Nine, Vincint, I swear as a Nord on Skyrim soil. I’ll—"

And in a second he is awake on a cold, hard stone bed in the middle of Skyrim’s corrupted border city. He recalls his hosts name is Nepos, but that is the only thought he has before the weight of the world comes crashing down. The man bolts and sits upright with blankets clutched to his bare chest. His knuckles are white from how hard he clenches the furs and fabrics. He feels his eyes water but there is no one to hold him or comfort _him_ as he begins to sob into his hands. He feels the threads of composure come fully unraveled with each new tear; he is truly a _mess_ to be dreaming of dead children.

But it reminds him of something. His dream self’s actions and sentiments echo in his head, not as mere words spoken to what he imagines is guilt manifesting in his subconscious and mind’s eye, but of a memory of six years prior. He vaguely recalls the catacombs of Whiterun’s Hall of the Dead, where he first heard Vinci singing the song that caused so many events to set into motion. It is where he was forced into a flashback, and in the flashback, he found shelter and solace squished into a crevice of the catacombs next to Leilani Whitemane. In that memory, she was the brave one and he was afraid. In that memory, she was a comforter and he the one lost and alone.

In the memory, he remembers his own vow to protect the woman from the monsters that roam the mortal plane and surrounding realms. He recalls it distinctly— _To protect her from all the monsters. All of them!_

It squirms into his head like a maggot among decay. The man drops his blankets and holds his head. He clenches his eyes shut and lets his tears naturally falter, until the grief is replaced by resolve and his melancholy takes the form of emboldened desperation. He is a man of his word. He must be, or he must become one, because he cannot sit in a pseudo-nightmare another time when reality is so much worse. He needs to find Namira, and he needs to rip the Daedric Prince out of Leilani Whitemane, out of _Vinci,_ and he needs to make sure Leilani is safe from Namira’s clutches for the rest of her life. He needs to protect her from the monsters, and protect himself from the monsters, and help her build a house by a river like she’s told him she wants to have so many times in the past.

 _By the Nine, I need to take her to the Throat of the World. She wants to see the little bites of Aetherius poking through!_ The man feels less _sad_ and morose. He has a goal. He has a goal he wants to believe is attainable, somehow, someway, even if he isn’t sure _how_ yet.

A knock on his chamber’s door interrupts the Harbinger’s thoughts. He throws on a shirt before sauntering to the door. When he opens it, the man sees Kaie’s irritated face. The shaman looks tired and _angry_ at him.

“So. Remember when you up an’ wanted to become best friends forever with that zealot?” The woman eyes him. “He won’t go _away._ ”

 _The Vigilant of Stendarr. Tyranus? Tyranus._ The Harbinger sighs. He _did_ agree to assist the man. Vilkas pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be there in a second. Give my apology to Nepos.”

Markarth is a dark fortress after nightfall. Though guards regularly make rounds across the city’s multiple floors and slopes, there is a distinct lack of light with only a small lantern providing luminosity. The clouds overhead does not help; not even the stars offer much for visibility. Under the shroud of darkness, the tall silhouette of Vigilant Tyranus greets Vilkas when the Harbinger steps out of his host’s residence. Vilkas wears his dwarven metal armor. He does not take any chances with an eccentric citizen, especially when one looks as sturdy and strong as Tyranus does.

The Vigilant grabs Vilkas’s hands in his own when the Harbinger stops next to him. Vilkas tries to pull them back but the Vigilant’s grip is _strong_. Vilkas hisses at him. _“Release me.”_

“We must hurry! The door to the Abandoned House—It’s unlocked,” Tyranus hisses back, eyes darting wildly around Markarth’s dark corridors and streets.

“Fine.” Vilkas follows with a scowl. The Harbinger finds Tyranus at the very arching hunk of stone the duo met at the previous day. He begrudgingly walks up to the Vigilant and rubs his weary eyes. Tyranus gestures at the door in the stone. It is unlocked; Vilkas opts to stride over and wretch it open while the Vigilant begins to gawk and sputter in awestruck horror. The Harbinger does not understand why he reacts so strongly; there is nothing but darkness beyond the door.

“See what I mean, Companion? Someone has been here! Why else would it be _dark?_ ” Tyranus’s words are as asinine as Vilkas feels that second.

 _I shouldn’t have answered the door._ The man chides himself internally. _But Companions help people… so… I need to… help…_

He really doesn’t want to. It might make him a terrible, selfish individual, but there is nothing appealing about meandering about a dark and creepy home. Even from the outside, the stale musk of dusty antiques wafts in from beyond. It makes Vilkas shudder. The Harbinger grits his teeth and snaps his head at Tyranus. Much to Vilkas’s chagrin, the Vigilant looks _more_ determined than before. When Tyranus jabs at him to enter, the Harbinger feels his obligations nag at his inside. He holds back another sigh and stares at the abandoned house. _Let’s get this over with._

It helps when Tyranus casts a _Magelight_ spell to illuminate the interior. The ball of light floats after the man as he trails Vilkas. When the door shuts behind the two, Vilkas grits his teeth and holds back comment. He feels tension creep through his bones but he attempts not to show it or let on his feelings. The Harbinger shuffles around heaps of furniture inside, struggling to be quiet while his armor scrapes and scuffles the wood.

“Look at this!” Tyranus calls Vilkas to stop. The Vigilant is a flabbergasted, wary mess of syllables under breath and scrutiny as he analyzes a very old chair. _“Do you see?_ Do you? No wood rot! No wood rot on the furniture!”

To shut him up, Vilkas retraces his steps and joins the Vigilant in staring at a chair. The Harbinger pauses when it registers the Vigilant speaks truth. The old chair has clear signs of wear, little dust, and no wood rot.

“It could be a squatter’s home.” The Companion says after a moment.

Tyranus ogles him. “A _squatter?_ Here? No, no, _no_ —I think—It must be the work of a Daedra cultist! A worshipper of the evil ones! Only they could have done this!”

“You’re sure of yourself.” There’s no containing the dry tone in his words. Vilkas balls up fists and eyes the man.

“I _know_ it sounds… preposterous!” The Vigilant goes on, spinning and steering his _Magelight_ around to examine other pieces of furniture while he speaks. “But I—I’ve interviewed—Interrogated—Asked so, _so_ many questions, Companion! But the people I’ve asked say that _no one_ enters or leaves! _Yet_ —Someone’s been here _recently._ A mystery! A terrible fiasco!”

“A squatter. We should go. I doubt a squatter’s lookin’ for a fight, Vigilant Tyranus.” Vilkas says.

“It’s not—It’s not a homeless busybody!” The Vigilant looks irritated, brows narrow and lips twitching. Tyranus jumps and spins on his heels suddenly. He snaps his head back and forth to look from one shadow to the next. The man begins to curse under his breath. He follows it by reciting a long prayer in a language Vilkas is not familiar with, or simply doesn’t care enough to try and understand.

Vilkas rubs his eyes and grimaces internally. He is too tired to show proper respect to the Nine throughout the chantry. When Tyranus finishes, the latter eyes him with big, beady eyes and snaps a finger. A second _Magelight_ pops into view over Vilkas and the Harbinger squints at him. “What’s this?”

“To protect you from the dark!” Tyranus speaks as if it is obvious.

Granted, the light is welcome. Vilkas finds the shadows less threatening and lucid when he has a ball of magic to light the way. Memories of his youth scarcely scratch the surface of his thoughts as he trudges after Tyranus further through the home. He stops at a set of stairs leading to a basement and looks over his shoulders at Tyranus. Vilkas frowns. “How many floors this place have? You know?”

“No, could be… _any_ number, oh, no, no, no,” the man replies without pause. Tyranus purses his lips and snaps his head around. “I’m—I’m sure I just—Saw—A figure—”

 _Seeing things. Not good._ The Harbinger tenses. “Was that—Is that a shadow playin’ tricks on your eyes, or… Maybe the squatter.”

“Not a squatter! I _know_ what I saw! What I’ve heard!” Tyranus hisses at him. The Vigilant scours down the steps into the basement. Vilkas shakes his head and trots after him.

The basement is darker and danker than the initial floor. Vilkas narrowly avoids a broken stair and grabs the basement wall for balance. The man cautiously steps down and off the stairs; he feels the _Magelight_ spell follow him. It illuminates a gleam of metal. Vilkas feels bile rise in the back of his throat; he stares at stacks upon stacks of cages, each fit to hold a human. _Or two. Two if they were… If they were… Children._

His hands begin to shake. He knows he needs to get a grip of himself and calm down before he loses himself in a flashback, but he can’t help it. The man feels the past nip at his heels. He spins in place and draws his greatsword. Shadows dance around him in tandem to the _Magelight_ following his steps. Vilkas feels sweat drip off his forehead and brow while he struggles with the feeling of helplessness. The emotions come in terrible, thick waves of terror accentuated by the overwhelming sensation of guilt and grief.

He is reminded in a second the children lost to the darkness, to the cult of Namira, to the _past,_ and he and Farkas only _just_ avoided adding to the number. He thinks of the horror that must have flowed through each child’s veins; their last moments on Nirn would have been one of pain, of sorrow, of terror, and it all destroys Vilkas inside. His eyes start to water. His trembling hands struggle to holds up his heavy greatsword with the weight of the past crashing unto his shoulders. Vilkas cusses loudly and drops his sword to the ground. He holds his head and forces a single thought into his mind. _It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I was a child. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything! I couldn’t!_

He wishes he could have saved them all.

Vilkas remembers the faces each made when whenever a child was marched from the cells into the darkness. The monsters in masks showed no emotion, but the numbness and pain lingered. Likewise, it reflects in the abandoned house: Vilkas holds his gut when he sees the scratches of nails against the insides of some cages. He hisses and snarls at the stains rusting away each cage’s metal floor. When the man almost trips on manacles, he loses self-control for a second.

He sees red. He sees memories. He sees dozens of children, unable to fight back, and the man bellows in unified anger for each of them. He throws a cage to the side, then another, and topples stack after stack with a crash to accompany each one falling apart. He grabs his sword and brings it down on weakened metal _again, again, again_ until it bends and gives. The Harbinger, once Vilkas of the cages, rips bars from cells and crushes the tiniest of cages underfoot with hulking dwarven greaves. He doesn’t stop until he is a panting, lumbering mess with a _Magelight_ overhead. The man’s gaze dims. He exhales sharply and slumps against a wall.

“I’m alone.” Vilkas whispers softly, both the boy of the cages and the man known as Harbinger. The Companion drops his sword and slowly slides down the wall until he plops on the floor. He holds his head in his hands and weeps.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the Vigilant of Stendarr finds him. All Vilkas knows is that the _Magelight_ eventually goes out, and it remains out for what feels like an eternity, before footsteps and shuffling reach his ears. By this point, he is out of tears. The man’s cried his lot. He wipes his eyes anyways and looks up as a ball of light flickers around a corner and approaches him. Beneath the light, partially obscured by the blaring, brilliant sphere of luminosity, is Tyranus. The man looks weary and exhausted, perhaps equally so as Vilkas does. Vilkas says nothing as the Vigilant ignores the broken cells and cages scattered across the basement floor. Tyranus makes his way to the Companion’s side and kneels near him. “Companion! Has darkness befallen you?”

“Sometimes I wish it had.” The Harbinger’s response is pitiful. _He_ pities himself.

“No, no! No,” the Vigilant grabs one hand and pulls Vilkas up before the Harbinger can think to resist. Tyranus jabs a finger into Vilkas’s dwarven breastplate and declares boldly. “You are not touched by darkness yet, Companion! The light of Stendarr protects us! We must go, quickly now, whatever dastardly occult activities took place here cannot be let to continue! We _must_ take action! Rid these lands of the darkness that permeates these grounds!”

“You think you can rid this place of… of… Daedra?” Vilkas finds himself staring. He leans over and grabs his greatsword. The man straightens upright and turns the sword over in both hands. His brown eyes are dark and dull. “How? With something so horrible— _How?_ ”

“We pray to the Nine for help. Then—We leave. We leave.” Tyranus makes it out to be so easy.

Vilkas does not see it that way. His brows furrow. The Vigilant ignores his look and makes to walk past him. Tyranus spreads his warms wide and gestures down the end of a long hallway. Vilkas feels chills crawl down his spine. He didn’t see it before, but it lingers in clear view: a long, twisting corridor with moss and roots growing through and over the walls, ceiling, and floor. It doesn’t look like dwarven architecture, a sharp contrast to the rest of the ancient city. The hall doesn’t even look like something a Nord would dig. There are too few supports, long gashes along the side, and perhaps most disturbing, a terrible, pungent odor of rotten flesh wafting from deeper in. Vilkas feels his body freeze when the scent assaults his nostrils.

 _Something dead?_ The man thinks.

“We must hurry,” Vigilant Tyranus steps beyond him and begins to march down the corridor. The man shows less fear, but Vilkas sees the tense posture all the same. The Harbinger grits his teeth, swallows his nerves, and hauls himself and his sword after the man.

The hall feels like it grows in length the further in one walks. The floor is not dirt, but it is not a stone recognizable to Vilkas. The man holds back from touching the wall. He sees Tyranus do the same; the two men share the same thought for once. When Tyranus holds up a hand, Vilkas feels his stomach begin to twist into uncomfortable, nauseous knots. The smell of death reeks through the air, bringing with it an urge to upchuck, to hurl, and to keel in submission to the sickness. The Harbinger inhales through his mouth and wills his stomach contents to _stay_ in his stomach. He squints into the shadows beyond, where the corridor comes to a sudden end and opens into a wide room.

It appears to be a hall.

No, it _is_ a hall. A great feast hall, one with a massive stone table stretching end-to-end. At the far end of the chamber is an altar carved and sculpted from a myriad of rocks and precious gemstones. Vilkas’s eyes widen at the dark figurine molded from obsidian and set on the altar’s surface.

 _Namira._ The name resonates in his mind, but it is not a thought filled with adoration and affection. The man begins to shake. His eyes water with fresh tears. _How can you be part of such horror, Vinci? How?_

 _I’m Namira! I’m the Aspect of Namira!_ She had yelled the words at him. Vilkas remembers them clear as day. He hadn’t truly registered the depth of which the words meant until that moment. He knows part of him had acknowledged the possibility that Vinci and Namira _could_ be the same, but he hadn’t known how far Namira would go to defend that.

The Harbinger’s eyes shut; he exhales sharply. _You… You aren’t just the Aspect of Namira. Not to me. Not to me!_

He must believe it. He needs to hold unto the thought, clutch it as tightly to his chest as he wishes he could hold Namira at that moment. He misses her, even after she left him and Kaie and Ohdon and departed to bury herself in a cave. He misses her, not just as a lover, but as a friend. The man knows he is many things, and smitten is one of them, but he knows that, more than anything else, he wants to have his _friend_ back. It is what he and Namira were first: friends, children of and in the darkness, eventual survivors to the trauma flooding the shared portion of the two’s childhood. Surviving the pain and suffering the darkness brought built a deep and personal bond between the two. He wants to keep that. He wants to keep her as a friend.

 _Even if things don’t… if they never…_ The man opens his eyes. He stares at the altar. _Even if you never looked at me like that again. I just… I want to be with you. I want you to be happy. Safe. Content with life! It’s not all pain and suffering. It isn’t all darkness!_

He is a mess. He doesn’t register the Vigilant’s cry of pain until Tyranus is doubled over and slumped against a table. Vilkas’s eyes widen and the man spins on his heels. He holds his greatsword up and points it at the shadows but his and Tyranus’s _Magelight_ s reveal nothing. Tyranus hisses as time goes on; the Vigilant clutches his head and begins to mumble inaudible syllables under his breath. The words rise in volume slowly.

“Vigilant Tyranus?” Vilkas stares.

The Vigilant of Stendarr cries out in desperation. He claws at his head and rips out hair. “She’s here! She’s here! She’s _here!_ ”

“What? What happened to—The prayer, Vigilant Tyranus? What’s going on?” Vilkas grips his greatsword with both hands and steps away. He holds the sword angled toward Tyranus. The man isn’t taking chances in case things go awry, even if he holds faint concern for the Vigilant’s wellbeing.

_A soiled lamb returns to me._

The voice speaks directly in his head. There is no warmth or affection, friendliness or consideration for how he begins to shake and shiver. A putrid presence rolls into the hall and two great doors suddenly slam shut at the hall’s entrance. Vilkas jumps and snaps his head up to look but he sees only shadows. It takes a second for him to register the entire hall has fallen into _darkness._ His heart begins to beat wildly in his ears and cold sweats dance down his spine while he hears Tyranus continue to mumble and fumble about nearby. The Harbinger bites his cheek hard to keep from freezing up. _Focus. Focus. Focus, Vilkas! Keep control of the situation!_

 _You can’t escape the darkness._ The voice repeats to him, elegant, soft, and full of venom.

It reminds him of a predator preparing to pounce on prey. Vilkas realizes with horror that some predators go out of their way to _toy_ with their meals. The man swallows and tries to heft his sword up, but he cannot feel it in his grasp anymore.

His entire body begins to go numb. He feels pressure against his knees and registers that his legs have buckled and given out. He feels the strange stone floor grind against his dwarven armor while his mind begins to dissociate from reality in futile efforts to escape the darkness.

 _But it will fail,_ the voice comes from behind him. Vilkas cannot move let alone breath when he sees claws darker than the darkest night reach around him and press into his armor’s neck guard. Even through the metal, through his clothes, he _feels_ the hunger of an Ancient Darkness beckon. He hears a laugh come from somewhere; it is not Tyranus who goes on to whisper in his head. _Soiled lamb, soiled lamb, how you have come to me. Begging… Crying… Weeping… You seek relief from the rot of life._

He does not. He won’t. He can’t. He’s not a monster in a mask. He will never be one. He will never give in and let darkness take him, both in the living and the dead. He is _Vilkas_ and he _lived._

But the voice cackles. The feminine allure to it is clear. It is Namira, _the_ Lady of Rot and Repulsion, and the sound alone makes Vilkas’s dissociative form flinch and spasm. He cannot control his actions; his body reacts in horror for him while his mind swarms to think of something to do. The voice makes an offer, _My soiled lamb. You have grown into a filthy shepherd… But I… Can… Set… You… Free…_

 _Free._ The Harbinger finds his mind becomes full of the thought.

It’s appealing. He has lived a life full of hardship and pain. Whether it be the lost children of darkness, his and Farkas’s original family butchered by a cult, or the loss of Jergen, of Kodlak, of _Vinci_ and so many others time and time again, the man has felt pain thrice over. He feels it in every inch of his bones, pushing and prodding and probing his nerves. He feels it in the ache in his chest, the weight on his shoulders, and in the searing hot pain of pokers stabbing into his feel and legs. He feels it take on a visceral form time and time again, where tears flow freely and the vulnerable, terrified child within the man comes out for a moment. He does not see, but he envisions it all the same: his face pale as a ghost, a mess of the past and the present, and his helplessness shining through all he does.

He is not a worthy Harbinger.

He has made many mistakes.

He is not like the Dragonborn, where aloof and friendly demeanor leads to eccentric solutions and a boldness when the situation calls.

He is not like his brother, where silence is merely a means to hide his maturity and insight into elaborate conflicts.

He is not like the Circle, where each member is bountiful in their own gifts, their strengths, and their spirits.

He could not save any of his friends. He couldn’t as a child, and he cannot now. He knows he cannot defeat a Daedric Prince. He knows he cannot resurrect the lost children of the darkness. He knows. He knows. He _knows_ , and he despises and loathes himself endlessly for it.

 _I couldn’t save Leilani._ The man feels his shoulders slump. He feels lighter than air and very, very cold. _I couldn’t save her as a child. I couldn’t save her as a Silver Hand. I couldn’t save her as Vinci. Namira. As… anyone._

He is tired.

 _My soiled lamb._ A voice calls from the darkness. _My filthy shepard. Your time of troubles is over… I am here to set you free. I am here to call you home… Call you from the darkness._

He wants to go home.

_You need rest, my child. But first… You must rise._

The voice instructs it, so it must be so. Vilkas feels his weakened body shudder and twitch, but he obeys. He sees only darkness but somehow the man knows where he must go. The Harbinger turns and slowly stalks forward with uneven, staggering steps. He climbs up to the altar. He feels the stone hum and pulse with ancient power beyond comprehension. It is home. It is _his_ home. The Nord slowly climbs unto the altar. He lays back obediently against the stone surface. Whether his eyes open or shut, there is only darkness around him.

 _You need to rest._ The feeling of exhaustion falls upon him. His body stills and his breathing slows. The filthy shepherd, the soiled lamb decades prior, cannot move. He doesn’t want to move. He yearns to obey the voice and follow its whims. He desires darkness. When he hears someone draw a blade, the man’s body locks up.

 _I’m going to make selfish decisions! I’m going to make sure you live!_ Namira’s voice breathes into his head, as pained and suffering as it was to hear that night.

He can’t die yet.

The man snaps his eyes open and the sight of the dark hall comes rushing back, overwhelming his senses. The cold sensation fades and in a second he’s thrown himself off the altar and unto the stone floor. He crashes into it and curses at the impact of metal armor grinding against the rock. When he looks up, he sees the outline of Tyranus’s silhouette standing near the altar. A _Magelight_ over the Vigilant’s head reveals the ebony dagger in the man’s hands. Vilkas scrambles backwards while the Vigilant advances.

“Tyranus! _Tyranus!_ Snap out of it!” Vilkas shouts. He pulls himself to his feet and jumps over the table, knocking chairs aside in the process. The man cusses after tripping on a chair leg. He hears the Vigilant lurch forward and a second later a horrible, hot pain _ripples_ through his skin at point of entry between where two plates of armor end. The dagger is ripped out of his leg’s flesh immediately, but a second blow follows. Blood spurts. Vilkas howls in pain and shoves the dagger and Vigilant away. Tyranus sprawls backward and Vilkas limbs to the hall doors. They are sealed shut. He cusses and tries to find the gleam of his greatsword but the shadows move too fast with the _Magelight_ above Tyranus shifting to accommodate the Vigilant.

“Tyranus! Vigilant of Stendarr!” Vilkas tries to hold up his hands and demonstrate he means no harm but the actions do nothing to cease the Vigilant’s onslaught. The Harbinger narrowly avoids another slash when Tyranus comes barreling at him. Vilkas reels back and slams his fist into the man’s gut. Tyranus grunts but the sound is faint and nowhere indicative the pain the man _should_ be in. Vilkas hisses when the Vigilant suddenly snaps back upright and grabs his wrist.

Tyranus thrusts the dagger into Vilkas’s wrist, just by the beginning of his gauntlet. It slides through his flesh effortlessly and Vilkas screams in pain. The man slams his head into Tyranus’s face and throws his body weight at him. He and the Vigilant go sprawling; the dagger flies out of Tyranus’s hands and the two become locked in a bloody grapple. Vilkas knows he is physically stronger, but he sees the way Daedric magic clings to Tyranus’s form. The man is a goner; the Vigilant of Stendarr has fallen to the Ancient Darkness’s call and it horrifies the Harbinger to no end. He clenches his teeth and rolls with the man, one atop the other for a time until Vilkas gets thrown to the floor and his head slams into a rocky outcropping.

The world shifts and shakes. His vision temporary spins. His mind is a disoriented mess and he begins to choke and wheeze when hands clasp around his neck. Vilkas feels his strength waning and he tries to pry the man off to no avail. Pressure clamps around his windpipe and oxygen escapes him. His eyes bulge; he thrashes and flails against Tyranus’s grip to no avail. When his body gives up and his hands drop weakly off the Vigilant, the doors to the hall suddenly crack and explode into a hundred pieces.

A raging storm atronach crackles with lightning and flies forward, one bolt of blue energy in hand. It takes only a second to lock unto the pair on the ground before a sharp yell causes it to throw the thunderbolt at Tyranus. Vilkas feels himself fade in and out of consciousness electricity courses through Tyranus’s body and into his own. The pain is substantial, but he cannot scream. He hears the Vigilant’s wails of pain cease a second later when an arrow flies forward and embeds itself into Tyranus’s eye. Footsteps pound across the hall floor to him while the storm atronach flies to the center of the chamber. Vilkas passes out.

He comes to with the face of a deer helm staring down at him. The rumble of thunder indicates the storm atronach remains nearby, but the Harbinger and his companions are not in the dark hall anymore. He is on a rotting wooden floorboard with a sack of _something_ providing a cushion for his head. Tyranus is nowhere to be seen, but the smell of burnt flesh lingers. It’s enough to make Vilkas try and clutch his sides to hurl, but pain shoots through his body and he hisses loudly.

The deer helm shifts. Light provided by _Magelight_ allows Vilkas to see Ohdon remove his helm. The Briarheart’s undead eyes remain dull and dreary, but the man’s lips briefly twitch into a smile before returning to a neutral expression. The Briarheart offers no words of comfort, merely facts, “You almost died back there.”

“Back—Where?” Vilkas mumbles. He lets his head lay backward against the sack of _something_. When he glances at himself, he sees some of his armor has been removed. The man’s flesh has been healed to a degree, but the soreness and tenderness of the sites linger. Vilkas stares first at his flesh, then he turns to the Briarheart kneeling next to him. “That—Was you?”

“Kaie is not the only one with spells. It is custom for Briarheart warriors to learn the basic principles of magicka.” Ohdon puts his helm back on, the deer pelt falling to cover his hair and nape.

“Thanks.” The Harbinger grunts. “How’d—How did you find me?”

“I waited until late to climb the walls. I saw you follow a strange man through the door of this place.”

“Vigilant Tyranus.” Vilkas feels his chest ache at the thought. He regrets not being more stubborn about the two _leaving the damn abandoned house alone,_ but it is too late for that. _Talos guide him to Sovngarde. He did his best. His opponent was too much for us._

“He’s dead.” Ohdon states.

Vilkas inhales slowly. He scrunches his nose at the smell of burnt flesh. “Was it necessary?”

“You desire death?” The Briarheart asks.

Vilkas shakes his head. He forces himself to sit up. Standing hurts, and he almost topples back to the ground but Ohdon catches him. The Briarheart picks up pieces of dwarven armor from the floor and hands them over.

“You were… unlucky. But we are a tough group of people. The Forsworn know how to help our wounded kin.”

“I’m your kin now?” The thought seems amusing to Vilkas.

Ohdon shakes his head. “No. But the principle of old magic applies. Melding the flesh to halt your bleeding… Restoring enough vitality to survive the onslaught of lightning… It was enough to keep you alive. It was enough to kill _Vigilant Tyranus._ Kaie will have to look at you, heal you.”

“I didn’t know you could conjure those things.” Vilkas begins to clasp on the miscellaneous dwarven armor pieces while he talks. The man struggles with his greaves and gauntlets given the pain in his wrists and legs, but a little maneuvering gets the armor in place. He feels better once it is on. His shoulders slump and he shuts his eyes. “We should—We should get out of this place. Now. There’s a hall to Namira here. It’s not… It’s dangerous. Deadly.”

“Where do you think I carried you from?” The Briarheart is already aware of the dangers of the abandoned home. Ohdon whistles sharply and his storm atronach bows its head before disappearing in a plume of electricity and black smoke. The Briarheart picks up his bow and straps a quiver to his waist. His _Magelights_ continue to hover around both men while he gestures at a broken staircase. “After you.”

Vilkas does not like to take orders, but he concedes. The man is truly grateful for Ohdon’s intervention. He stops to grab and sheathe his greatsword, then he begins to climb the stairs.

Backtracking is much faster than the Harbinger expects. He wonders if the magic of an Ancient Darkness has something to do with the time spent and subsequently lost inside the house. He does not get much time to dwell on the thought, because when the man forces the door of the abandoned house open, a terrible sight greets him. He finds a dozen guards, armed to the teeth, stare him down. Swords and halberds gleam underneath starlight.

Vilkas slowly lifts his hands and steps out. He clears his throat _loudly._ “Evening.”

 _Don’t come out, Briarheart Ohdon._ The man thinks. He feels relief but struggles to contain it when the Briarheart takes notice of his gestures and remains behind. Vilkas steps forward but does not fight when two guards’ approach and seize his weapon. He remains calm and composed even through the pain in his body of partially healed injuries. He feels his hands be ripped behind his back and a set of metal cuffs forced unto his wrists. Vilkas hisses under breath; he feels the metal bite into his flesh. It _hurts._

 _But it’s better than being dead._ The Harbinger thinks.

“Harbinger of the Companions.” The voice comes from the side. A tall Nord with a shaved head and eloquent armor pushes aside one guard and strides forward. Vilkas finds himself face-to-face with a man he has not seen personally in a long time; the Jarl of Markarth, Thongvor Silver-Blood, has many more wrinkles than when the two last crossed paths. Jarl Thongvor holds a deceptively pleasant smile and tilts his head to one side. “Or should I say—What was it? _Vilkas,_ they call you?”

“Jarl.” Vilkas holds his tongue. He fights the urge to cuss out the Jarl in front of all the guards for having the nerve to handcuff him in the middle of the night.

“Last time you were here,” the Jarl goes on. “Your temper got the best of you, Harbinger. You were not of an esteemed position then but your Harbinger, may he rest in pieces, was terribly convincing to my father. That was the past. I apologize, but I won’t take chances with my city again, Harbinger.”

When the Jarl begins to walk, Vilkas has no choice but to follow the muscular Nord. He grits his teeth and struggles to keep up between his body aching with pain and the guards constantly bumping into him, likely on purpose. After a long minute of silence, the Harbinger forces himself to say _something_ in his defense. “—It’s been many years. I’m not _like that_ now.”

“Mm, I’m sure.” The Jarl does not care for small talk, unless it involves _his_ small talk.

Vilkas is reminded why he dislikes the man.

When the steps to Markarth’s Keep come into view, Vilkas is made to climb them all the way to Understone Keep. Two guards hold the doors open for Thongvor and Vilkas. A partially excavated chamber reveals the lengthy walk from Understone Keep’s main doors to the Jarl’s quarters, kitchen, and court. By the time Vilkas finishes the march to the Jarl’s personal court, his legs are a mess of tremors and sharp, stabbing pain. He _knows_ Ohdon mended some of his flesh, but it is obvious the Briarheart did not finish the job or perform it _perfectly._ Vilkas finds his eyes grow wet from the pain as time goes on.

The Jarl of Markarth climbs a smaller set of stairs to his throne in the courtroom. It is a small chamber with six guards, three on each side of the throne, and a Housekarl keeping watch to the side of the throne. Thongvor plops down in his throne without a care in the world. He leans back and eyes Vilkas with dark brown eyes and a smug, twisted smile. “I had hope we’d run into one another eventually. I haven’t forgotten the blemish you gave me.”

 _The black eye._ Vilkas grits his teeth and braces himself, but no swings come. He anticipates being struck at any moment yet none of the guards punch him.

“I am _civil,_ Harbinger. I will not allow _my_ guards to harm an innocent man.” Thongvor props himself up with a forearm on the armrest of the throne. “You _are_ innocent. Are you not?”

Vilkas feels his stomach twist. He narrows his gaze. “What kind of question is that?”

“You see, Harbinger, there is something peculiar about the building you and that raving zealot entered. It is not abandoned, not to the whims of which a Vigilant of Stendarr should’ve investigated. What was his name?”

“Tyranus.” The Harbinger spits it out.

Thongvor slowly nods. “Yes… Yes. Tyranus. Well, Harbinger. _Vilkas._ Tyranus made a mistake. It is not abandoned. In fact—It’s owned by a good friend of my family. Quite a few properties in this city are. As such—It’s imperative to _consider_ the law and _respect_ it when you tread through Markarth territory. I am an _upholder_ of the _law_ , Vilkas. You respect that, don’t you? You are a law-abiding citizen yourself—” Thongvor pauses and looks to him expectantly.

Vilkas growls. “I try to be.”

“—Well, that makes things easier for me! You are a reasonable man. You understand there are consequences of breaking the law. Which is why—You understand I cannot allow you to walk around Markarth in a tizzy, meandering with this, messing with that, all when you have broken and entered into a property and trespassed where you cannot go?” Thongvor’s grin is cocky and agitating. It is a ploy to goad Vilkas into lashing out, but his temper is kept under wraps.

Vilkas feels his eye twitch. He grits his teeth and takes a moment to suck in a deep breath. “…You’re arresting me, then?”

“I wanted to make it clear to any whispers in the dark that you have committed a crime, Harbinger. You are being sentenced because of your actions. It is… the process of _justice._ ” The Jarl straightens upright and clears his throat. Vilkas does not resist when two guards grab hold of him and keep him still. He meets Thongvor’s gaze while the latter adds on. “I say… Twelve years ought to do it. Got to keep you alive while you have use.”

Under any other circumstances, Vilkas knows he would try to plead his case, or fight back, or do _something_ , but the man is compliant when the guards make him march out of the Keep and through the dark streets of Markarth. He knows where this path leads, and for once the unfortunate circumstances come with a grim blessing: the man is being taken to Cidhna Mine. The King in Rags awaits him.


	38. a soiled lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aspect of namira treks through the wildlands of the reach in search of a tomb to bury herself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw:  
> -implications of past child abuse  
> -self harm / mutilation

The skies of the Reach become sporadically cloudier as days tick by. She does not mind the rain or the storms that shower the ground. In her mind, it is a way to avoid the populace. Caravans are less likely to travel through heavy showers, bandits do not go out of their way to rob while soaking wet, and she can scour the lands of the Reach with relative peace. The sound of drizzling is a much-needed ambience for the aspect of Namira; it provides a constant where her life has none. It dulls her thoughts and blurs her mind. It gives her a respite from the woes haunting her soul, her past, and her future. In an individual’s final days, she hopes to find a semblance of serenity in hers.

The Lady of Rot and Mistress of Decay never hands peace over without a struggle. The world seems to side with her on how nature shifts or how the weather turns in hours from a terrible storm brewing to sudden sunshine.

When the rain does not pour and the sky is bright blue, the summer sunshine blasts her armor with heat. Dust and dirt sticks to the ebony mail. When her horse refuses to go further across difficult terrain and rocky crags, she dismounts and releases it on a road where it is sure to be found by passing travelers. Saying goodbye to _Slush_ is hard, but the present is harder, and she must stay strong to press on. She does not look back when she walks into the wilderness alone. She does not acknowledge the howling darkness inside her head, tearing at her restraint and impulse control to _rot, decay, devour,_ and _destroy_. She fights the inhumane hunger quelling and bubbling inside her like acid.

 _But it hurts._ She acknowledges the fact. _I want it to stop. I want this to stop!_

Her rot has spread up her right arm and begun to permeate her shoulders, chest, and neck. She sees the otherworldly necrosis claim flesh; it slowly eats and nips away at the _life_ she tries to hold unto, at the magic Sanguine graciously gifted to the Hagravens for the sake of keeping her alive. One Daedric Prince’s power is not enough to fend off such a behemoth beast. It is a losing battle. Desire no longer courses her veins. The greed of indulgences does not tempt her to reconsider her current actions. She feels her mind buckle under the mental strain of two et’Ada in sheer conflict, a strife beyond mortal tolerance. If she were not Namira, she would already be dead.

And Namira, the Daedric Prince that repulses her as much as she repulses herself, is a sick visitor in the aspect’s mind. Her haunting voice rakes nails down Namira’s back and makes the aspect queasy and nauseous. The Lady of Rot comes and goes as she pleases, but she frequently takes the form of a dark and feminine shadow with hulking talons and thin, wispy legs. She makes a mockery of the aspect in doing so; the sight is nothing more than a hallucination, but it is a display of power Namira cannot achieve in her current form. She is so, _so_ weak as an aspect.

 _“You don’t have to stay this way. We can… become one.”_ The voice comes again, a myriad of terrible garbles worming through the aspect’s head.

Namira shuts her eyes. Her head has not begun to rot, but she anticipates it coming soon as the skin and flesh in that area has dulled in color. That evening, she is camped on a cliff several miles north of Markarth. The foliage around is bristle and dry; it provides adequate firewood for her. She does not need to eat with the rot, so she does not. She builds a fire and sits back with her longsword sheathed at her side. A boulder provides a wall to lean against. Her mind is a mess as she hears the Daedric Prince continue in her spiel.

 _“You want it, don’t you? Peace… Peace in the darkness… I can give you that… I will bring it to you… This world deserves the embrace of darkness,”_ again the voice hums into her head, soft and sinking deep through her consciousness. _“Don’t fight me, Leilani. Let me… in…”_

“Shut up!” Namira snaps at herself at last. She growls and slams the back of her head against the stone. It does no real damage, her helmet is still on, but it rings terribly when metal hits rock. She cusses under her breath. _A little longer. A little longer. I need to hold out a little longer._

She wants to. She is trying. The woman strains and fights against the influence and power of a Daedric Prince throughout the night. She turns and tosses next to the fire, a mess of sweat and grime underneath her suit. All she can think of is the pain of decay, the permeation of Namira, and the nightmares that come whenever she shuts her eyes. The latter involves people she knows, like her dead brother or Farkas. Sometimes it involves her dead uncle, Kodlak, or her dead mother. Sometimes it involves the dead children of the cages, of the darkness. Perhaps the worse ones involve herself as a young prisoner in the cage next to Vilkas.

She remembers sporadic sequences of those years. They come to her in vivid, mind-numbing depictions scattered throughout her dreams. In her mind, the details do not have to be _perfect_ to be _terrifying._ It mortifies her to no end to envision the world peeling itself apart like skin from taut muscle. Her consciousness is a mess of grief and fear whenever she awakens; cold sweat dots her forehead and the world spins in circles until her mind settles and registers: it is _just_ a dream.

Then she grows tired, shuts her eyes, and the cycle repeats. Her suffering is a loop she cannot stop, a cycle she cannot end, and a world of suffering for which she cannot escape. Namira eventually gives up on her rest. She sits by her small campfire and stares into the flames. Her mind wanders but it always comes back when a Daedric Prince’s voice seeps through her consciousness.

_“Soiled lamb… Soiled lamb.”_

Hearing Namira’s voice so clearly startles the aspect. She pauses and looks around. She does not see the violent, hungry shadows of the Lady of Rot nearby. _Is she talking to me?_

_“A soiled lamb returns to me.”_

It dawns on the aspect that the Daedric Prince is not addressing _her._ She is listening to the Prince speak _elsewhere._ If it is part of the connection the two possess, part of her being a manifestation of a _sliver_ of Namira’s true power, then the aspect despises it. She fears it. She cannot fathom followers of Namira existing in the present. She does not want to believe it. As the flames nearby crackle and dance, a thought crosses the aspect’s mind and her eyes widen.

 _Soiled lambs are not… her followers. Are they?_ Namira thinks. She holds her breath. _No. No. She’s found another victim, hasn’t she? She’s found someone to prey on._

It would be easier to accept things as beyond her ability to interfere had the voice of a Daedra ceased in her head. It would be easy, even, to dissociate from Namira’s feast elsewhere on Nirn until the Daedra finishes, except Namira is not the only voice to ring out. Crystal clear, as pronounced as the stars shine overhead, comes the words of a man struggling against her.

 _“Focus. Focus. Focus! Vilkas! Keep control of the situation!”_ It is a peek into the mind of the man she’s sinfully smitten with. Even in partial undeath, the aspect of Namira feels her remaining blood freeze over and chills rake her spine. Her face drains of color. She pulls her helmet off and stares at it. It does not offer anything; the helmet remains still-as-stone while Namira struggles to process what is occurring.

 _No. No. Not him._ The thought screams in her head. Her eyes well with tears. _Not him, Namira!_

He is the soiled lamb. He’s found one of her altars or shrines or _something_ somewhere. He’s found an unholy place where the space between Nirn and Oblivion thins out and Daedric magic seeps through.

 _“You can’t escape the darkness.”_ Somewhere far, far away, the Companion’s Harbinger has been caught in Namira’s trap.

For a long moment, the aspect’s body holds its breath. She doesn’t dare breath lest the sky come crashing down and the world end then and there. She grips the ground with her gauntlets; her fingers dig into the earth while she stares at the night sky and prays to Aedra for help. She knows none will come but the woman _tries_ anyways. She prays, and she prays, and she prays, and prays, and prays until her heart is overflowing with grief and terror. She prays for the Nine to smite her, for the sun to erase her from the lands of Nirn, for _someone_ to do something. Leilani prays.

 _“But it will fail.”_ The voice of the Lady of Decay is not directed at _her_ , but it might as well be as she goes on. _“Soiled lamb, soiled lamb, how you have come to me. Begging… Crying… Weeping… You seek relief from the rot of life.”_

The allure to Namira’s words disgusts her. She hisses and snaps out of the stupor of fear her thoughts put her in. She tries to will the man to resist it, to _fight_ back, to try, but she does not hear any words of protest.

_“My soiled lamb. You have grown into a filthy shepherd... But I… Can… Set… You… Free…”_

When the man’s thoughts finally come through, they are worse than she expects. Her body stills and her mind races to understand the single word Vilkas thinks in response, _“Free.”_

“Don’t!” Namira screams the word at the sky. _“Don’t!_ Vilkas! Harbinger! Companion! Please!”

The silence that follows forces Namira to her feet. She runs gauntlet-covered hands through the tiny wisps of hair beginning to grow in. The woman looks around with wild green eyes but finds nothing of use. She knows she won’t find anything; she is in the middle of nowhere in the night. But she needs to do something. She _needs_ to try! She can’t let Vilkas throw his life away. She won’t. She won’t! Not him.

 _Not him._ Namira dares think the words. _Please. Vilkas. Live. Run._

 _“I couldn’t save Leilani,”_ His words make her still. The thoughts drift lazily through her mind, but they cut sharper than the finest steel. _“I couldn’t save her as a child. I couldn’t save her as a Silver Hand. I couldn’t save her as Vinci. Namira. As… anyone._ ”

“No. No, that’s,” the aspect catches herself and her eyes water. Her shoulders slump and tears slowly roll down her cheeks. “It’s not your fault. It isn’t. It’s… It’s not. Vilkas.”

He can’t hear her. She doesn’t know where he is.

 _“My soiled lamb. My filthy shepherd.”_ Namira hears herself say the words in the distance. _“Your time of troubles is over...”_

 _What do I do?! What do I do?_ She looks at the fire. The flames look smaller than before; it too is dying.

_“I am here to set you free. I am here to call you home… Home from the darkness.”_

By the Nine, Namira wants to retch at the deceit laced into her own words. She grits her teeth. She needs to _focus._ She grabs her longsword and turns it over in her hands, lost in thought and scrambling to find a way to intervene. She won’t let herself kill him. She won’t let her harm the Companion. He’s her friend. He means something to her; she can’t let him die, not when he was one of the two who _lived._

 _“You need rest, my child. But first—You must rise.”_ The words spell ill. Namira intends to feast on the Harbinger and consume all he is in rot and repulsion. She struggles not to break down screaming at the frustration and fear mingling in her head.

 _Namira!_ She tries to shout the thought through space and time, to another place on Nirn where Vilkas is.

_“You need to rest.”_

Words aren’t working. She needs more drastic measures. Namira knows the Daedric Prince values the aspect’s physical form. She understands Namira seeks to take control of it for herself and unleash decay upon the whole of Nirn. It is the only ‘leverage’ she has against the Daedra, and piss-poor leverage at that.

“Namira!” The aspect bellows the words in a desperate call. When the name leads to nothing, Namira unsheathes her sword and holds the longsword out. She tilts her hand and angles it at herself. The edge of the blade prods her abdomen, where it threatens to pierce the thin layer of armor between the larger ebony pieces covering her torso. “Namira! Come out! Talk to me! Now!”

 _Gods, damnit. Damn it all! Rot it all away!_ She curses inside. Her eyes water again. She isn’t going to be able to help him. She needs to, and she wants to, and she _tries_ to, but she can’t. She’s not strong enough to snatch the Daedric Prince’s attention by sheer willpower.

“No. No. I need to do this. I have to,” Namira sobs. She clenches her eyes shut. “At whatever cost—I—I know you keep _hoping_ , Vilkas! Hoping! Praying! Wanting things to be different! But it’s not—And I—I must keep you safe from her! Even if it means—If it means— _I’m going to make selfish decisions! I’m going to make sure you live!”_

The woman’s eyes narrow. She holds her longsword up, sucks in a breath, and brings it down into herself. She gasps in pain and drops to one knee when the blade pierces a thin point in her armor and cuts into her flesh. The blood does not begin dripping until she slowly pulls her sword free; it suddenly comes out in a geyser of rich, deep red. The sight of _living_ flesh bleeding horrifically is somehow comforting to the aspect of Namira.

The gush of blood brings with it a terrible, screaming presence. Shadows unfurl and dart to the flames. The Ancient Darkness wraps around the fire and extinguishes it immediately while the aspect of Namira lets her head drop. Her eyes stare at the soil beneath her. She sees her own blood, what she has of it, soak into the earth. It is a pitiful sight. Her green eyes begin watering again. She cries silently while a disgusting figure of darkness, darker than night itself, rises from a corner of her meager campsite. The dark manifestation of Namira is a vicious and vile thing that comes swaying to her side. Cold grasps of darkness dig into her body and haul her up.

She looks the Ancient Darkness in the eye and weeps in pain.

The Lady of Rot hisses. _“You can’t save him.”_

“I have to try,” Namira whispers.

 _“My lambs always return to me. My lambs become my shepherds!”_ The Daedric Prince throws her to the side. She screams in agony when she hits the ground with her injured side. The dark form of Namira points a finger at her and howls. _“You will embrace it! Embrace us, Leilani! Embrace your future! You will lead the sheep! The shepherds! The filth! My repulsion! I will consume all you are and all you wish to me!”_

“Not him—” Is all the aspect manages before a second sob escapes her.

The Lady of Rot hisses at her. The Daedric Prince possesses an ungodly, unjust aura. It throws the aspect’s mind into a world of fear and scouring shadows. The hallucinations become more real. The pain burns and sears into the aspect’s flesh. Namira _feels_ her rot extend from her arm and deepen the onslaught on her torso. While this goes on, the Lady of Rot growls deeply. _“I do not have to wait any longer for you… my soiled lamb.”_

“Please—” The aspect of Namira begs. “Please—Please! _Please listen!”_

The request is not what the Lady of Rot expects; Namira stares at the aspect’s bleeding body with _expectation_.

Maybe the aspect of Namira cannot reach Vilkas, but she can reach Namira. She can distract the Daedric Prince. She can try to keep the Daedric Prince away long enough for the Harbinger to come to his senses and leave whatever accursed dungeon he has found himself in. It is not much, but it will have to be enough. It hurts her to move let alone think but the aspect knows she must try to bargain with herself to ensure Vilkas’s safety.

“I want to make an… offer. A trade.” The aspect of Namira whispers through pain.

Namira’s shadowed form does not respond.

“You want this,” the aspect gestures weakly at her own body. She has not injured herself to the point of dying right away; she does not believe Namira would let her go through self-mutilation if it were possible. The aspect grits her teeth when a particularly bad spike of pain ensues in trying to sit up. She fails and flops back on the ground. “You want—Control. Right? You want control of _this._ ”

Once again Namira does not speak.

“I want to go to the tomb Leilani died in,” It’s a soft-spoken request; the aspect’s strength wanes. “Where I woke up like this—Where we woke up—And there—There I’ll let you have me. I won’t fight. I won’t fight back anymore.” Her eyes continue to hold tears, these ones large and glistening as they build only to fall down her cheeks.

The Daedric Prince does not speak for a time. No more thoughts come through her mind. She does not know what the rest of herself intends to do, but she hopes it is enough. She hopes _she_ is tempting enough. She has nothing left to offer but control over the physical manifestation. And, even if the Daedric Prince takes the offer, it does not mean Vilkas will escape Namira’s rot. She may very well go out of her way to kill him _first_ because of his place as a soiled lamb.

 _The soiled lamb who got away._ The aspect of Namira clings to the thought. _Please—Get away. Get away, Vilkas. Survive._

 _“Among the tombs of the Reach…”_ the Lady of Rot cuts through her thoughts, her words, and her resolve to think further. Her shadowed figure stalks forward and bends over the aspect. Namira finds herself face-to-face with a terribly blank and atrocious face _reeking_ of hunger. Hundreds of silver eyes stare at her from the darkness. It is the face of Namira’s true self, the Ancient Darkness born from terrible things long ago. _“…We will find the resting place… Your resting place… Leilani.”_

“I’m not Leilani,” she forces the words out. The shadows loop around her body and hold her in place while disgusting spews of crimson magic engorge in the wound site. She begins to shake and spasm with waves of pain rocking her body. When Namira drops her aspect on the ground, the aspect cries out in pain but does not complain.

 _“You are nothing.”_ The shadows sway softly near the aspect’s wounded form. _“Nothing… Leilani. Not even a soiled lamb anymore. I allow you to live… You will relinquish control of the body to me.”_

“Take me to the place Leilani Whitemane died. The place where this began. I will give up there. But I want to see it. I need to see it,” The aspect pleads.

 _“Rise and walk. I will show you the way…”_ And in a heartbeat, a second, a _thought_ , the shadows are gone from view and the terrible presence absent from her camp. Namira sits up and begins a struggle to contain the bleeding in her abdomen. As an uncomfortable silence settles over the camp, lit only by starlight, the aspect finds herself slumping against a rock with exhaustion on her shoulders. She yearns for sleep, but none comes.

 _Live, Vilkas._ The aspect thinks. _Please live. You. Farkas. Rune Dragonborn. Your Companions. Live for them. Live for yourself. Live for me.  
_


	39. pay the toll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas bumps into a familiar face while attempting to talk his way to an audience with the king in rags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello... decided to take some more time with the cidhna mine  
> originally all the mine stuff was gonna be one chapter  
> but that is wayyyy too rushed  
> so i'll be splitting it up a little bit  
> hope you enjoy :D i know it's a lot of chapter's from vilkas's perspective  
> but we will get back to the rest of the cast sooooooon
> 
> tw:  
> -implications of past child abuse  
> -there is a werewolf hunt flashback and murder !  
> -mentions of suicidal ideation / suicide

He has nothing on him but his clothes when the guards throw him into the mine. His prized armor is lost, his sword taken, and the guards take time to rough him up before dumping him with the rest. The Harbinger finds his jaw and eyes ache from their punches; the looks he gets from others hint at the swelling already begun, the popped blood vessels, and the bruising that will follow. It isn’t pleasant to _feel_ , but it fits the situation; he needs to show himself as a tough and level-headed individual, one that can take a hit or two without snapping. The other prisoners have already begun to watch him by the time Vilkas sits up and rubs his head.

His hair is a mess. He doesn’t bother to fix it aside from pulling the dark brown locks back and securing them with the hair tie he already had present. Vilkas lowers his hands to his side after and glances around.

Cidhna Mine is a dark and dreary place. It is the source of most silver ore in the Hold. Rightfully so; numerous pockets of silver ore gleam faintly from places along the walls, floor, and ceiling of the mine. Old, rusting pickaxes litter the ground. Several feet away, toward the center of the cavern, a fire pit has been dug from the soil. A humble fire spins and twirls in place, offering tempting warmth Vilkas does not reach for. He must show himself as _strong._ He must demonstrate he can endure far worse than what the Silver-Blood family has done.

More importantly: he needs to find the _King in Rags._

The Harbinger quickly takes account of the mine’s occupants. In the main cavern, he sees a burly orc of a man guarding a barred door in front of an offshoot corridor. Next to the fire is an old gentleman with tufts of white hair barely covering his forehead; the man has fine wrinkles across his forehead and appears to be a Breton at first glance. Both the Orsimar’s and Breton’s clothes are muddled with grime and _Talos_ knows what else. Looking beyond him, the Harbinger makes out a much larger tunnel opens further into the mine. There are candles for light, barrels, and chairs scattered with no obvious place or purpose. Directly above, Vilkas spots the ledge the guards threw him off just prior; the exit feels so close, yet the walls are too sheer to climb.

Vilkas sees more pickaxes at the feet of other prisoners just around the corner. He hears the clinks and clanks of metal striking ore veins. The Harbinger stills when he hears a voice come from the fire nearby.

“What are you in for, new blood?” The Breton is the one to speak. His voice contains more than the words let on, but Vilkas cannot deduce exactly _what_ the man is after.

The Harbinger hesitates. He feels two sets of eyes land on him. Vilkas swallows his nerves and clears his throat. He makes to stand and brushes dirt and dust off his pants. “—Trespassing, ‘pparently.”

The Breton laughs. The Orsimar chuckles. It is better than having a fist or knife thrown his way after how the rest of the night has been going. Vilkas glances at the Orsimar and deliberates asking a question, but he holds off on it. The Harbinger does not want to come across as _too_ friendly to prisoners when he does not know who can be trusted.

In the end, it does not matter, because the Breton continues to speak anyway, “Fancy that. Your kin don’t give two _shits_ what you’ve done. Or what you’ve not done. You’re here with the rest of us.”

“I am,” the Harbinger affirms. He cracks his neck, then his knuckles. He inhales slowly. “You have any advice for getting around here?”

“Advice? _My_ advice?” The Breton laughs again. He shakes his head. “Serve your time at the pickaxe and get out. You don’t want to end up getting a shiv to the guts over a bottle of skooma.”

 _Skooma?_ He’s never tried it himself. Vilkas furrows his brows. “I’ve heard of the stuff.”

“It’s a… much needed pick-me-up. A way to pass the time once you’ve met your quota for silver ore, friend,” the Breton glances over his shoulder at the Orsimar nearby. The man doesn’t move or acknowledge the Breton, and he turns back to Vilkas to carry on the conversation. “It also happens t’be the only currency we have down here. As you can see—Silver ain’t worth a damn.”

“Not much is these days.” Vilkas grunts.

The Breton claps his hands together. He grins wildly. “There you are! Now you’re sounding like a real down-to-earth prisoner. Welcome to the Mine! Name’s Uraccen. You go by something, friend? Or must I continue calling you _friend_ for your stay?”

The Harbinger hesitates. He doesn’t know whether to give his real name or an alias. The man questions how the Forsworn may react. He knows no long-withstanding conflict exists between the Companions and the Forsworn, but he doesn’t want to risk it when he’s gotten by on luck and good timing in the past. He opens his mouth to speak but a thought drifts into his head.

 _They will kill you for dishonesty. The Forsworn uphold their own form of honor._ It had been Namira who told him the words, when the two wound up bathing in a river at odd hours of the night. Vilkas grits his teeth. He detests the thought, and every part of him screams against it, but the man reluctantly obliges in offering the words, “Vilkas. I’m Vilkas—”

 _“—Of the Companions?”_ Uraccen’s head shoots up and the Breton eyeballs Vilkas with a strange intensity.

The Harbinger shuts his eyes. He can feel two sets of eyes on his form. “…Yes. Of the… Companions.”

Immediately, the Orsimar nearby begins to laugh aloud. Uraccen joins in on the commotion, keeling over in chortles and humor. The Breton bellows, “I—I can’t believe—Another one—Pompous—Snooty—Honor-touting…” The words trail off in a fit of bellowing laughter.

Vilkas pauses. He feels the hair on his nape stand up on end. _Another one? Another Companion? In Cidhna Mine?_

“That’s not possible.” The man snaps, only to be met by amused looks and shaking of heads.

“Tell yourself that,” Uraccen looks at his humble firepit. The flames sway like well-versed dancers, dipping and spinning, twirling and flickering to-and-fro. “You must be pretty damn obsolete to think _your kind_ got some kinda immunity to Markarth’s corruption. We all bleed red here, friend. We all find our place in the Mine. Our King’s at the top of this hierarchy; everyone else ain’t matter, and for good reason. Madanach’s leadership unites our people. Even in a cell—His influence grows, expands, embolds us to fight back against your thieving Empire! What do your Companions do? Serve that pompous Emperor? Doesn’t matter here.”

 _It’s not what the Companions do. The Companions help people!_ He wants to correct the Breton, but Uraccen no longer heeds him attention. Vilkas holds his tongue. He glances at the Orsimar. _Madanach’s in a cell, huh? Must be what that man’s guarding._

But Madanach can wait, because as Vilkas stands near Uraccen and his fire pit deliberating, he hears a terrible crash from another part of the mine. The Harbinger flinches and stares at the large corridor opening into the depths of Cidhna Mine. Uraccen whistles while Vilkas holds his breath and waits to see who or what emerges. He anticipates more Forsworn, and perhaps unfortunate Markarth citizens who’ve experienced the city’s corruption firsthand, but what he is not prepared for is the scar-riddled face of a tall Nord with long ginger hair swept into rudimentary curls. The pale, permeating eyes belonging to a person of Hircine’s blood lock with his own.

“Aela?” Vilkas says in a whisper.

Chills creep down his back. The Harbinger stares in disbelief at the woman as she pauses and glances at him. She hasn’t changed much since the last time the two saw each other. Though she dons prisoner’s garb in place of her notorious furs and leathers, Aela’s arm and legs still possess enough muscle mass. Her skin is coated in grime and dirt, but she is not a scraggly, thin stick of a woman. She has more scars than Vilkas remembers; the markings on her face have long-since faded in favor of semi-recent, pasty pink splotches of skin that cut across Aela’s jawline, nose, and eyebrow in what appears to be crude slashing marks.

He does not know what to say. The man stares at her in disbelief until the ginger-haired woman tilts her head to one side and barks out. “Hands to yourself.”

“Girl’s got bite, be warned, Vilkas,” Uraccen snorts. The man looks up at Aela. “What you need—”

Uraccen’s words are cut off in a sharp intake of breath. Aela freezes in place as a look of recognition flits across her features. Vilkas does not know whether to be relieved or mortified; the realization is followed by a stone-cold glare that makes him lift his hands up. Aela hisses the words loudly, _“You purified yourself?_ Was the Blood not good enough for you? Hircine’s gift wasn’t _enough_ to satisfy your sorry soul?”

“Things change,” Vilkas grits his teeth. He takes a step back when she takes a step forward. “People change, Aela!”

“I didn’t,” the woman growls with an inhumane ferocity only a werewolf could offer. Her eyes are full of a lust for flesh and need to hunt. “I’m still _me._ ”

 _Why does this matter?!_ Vilkas screams inside his head. The Harbinger drops his arms to his side and tenses. “Aela— _Aela—_ How in Oblivion’re you alive? How’d you survive? Everyone—All of us—We think you’re _dead!_ ”

“Well, maybe if you bastards looked for me you’d have found me. It isn’t hard to track a fucking werewolf!” The Companion snaps. “By Hircine himself, how do you _think_ I survived?! I hunted! I ate! I ran!”

“Rune said you were shot by cross-bolts. He said you were killed protecting Farkas.” The Harbinger grits his teeth. He does not want to wrestle an angry werewolf. Aela, regardless if she is in human or wolf form, is the equivalent to an angry werewolf at present time.

The man cannot hide his sigh of relief when the other Companion finally stops advancing on him and looks to the side. Aela’s pale eyes are unnaturally vivid, yet they hold a darkness to them. Vilkas sees the conflicting emotions push and pull against each other, a reflection of the storm encompassing the mind of someone of the Blood. But Aela is strong. _He_ thinks she is strong. She was one of the best werewolves of the Circle; he knows her impulse control is exceptional and her restraint to be admired.

 _But six years changes a person._ Vilkas reminds himself.

“Fine.” Aela forces the word out with venom lacing her tone. “For the sake of us not tearing the other to shreds—I will let go of your unfathomable failure to find me. Vilkas. You and all the other Companions. But I am not happy about it.”

“I appreciate that.” Vilkas exhales sharply. The man bites his lip. He watches Aela stride to Uraccen and plop next to the man and his fire. When Aela gestures for Vilkas to sit, he joins the two and sits across from Aela at the fire pit. The Harbinger tentatively looks from one individual to the next. He constantly checks for signs of hostility but, aside from leers and occasional growls from Aela, he finds none. The Harbinger settles and waits for Aela to offer some words or explanation. She doesn’t. After an uncomfortable minute, Vilkas bites his lip and speaks up. “…What happened at Gallows Rock, Aela? Everyone—All of Jorrvaskr thought you died.”

“So did I.” The red-haired huntress breathes out slowly. Her pale eyes dim. “It would be easy if that was the case. Life is… a challenge, Vilkas. You know that.”

“I do.” Vilkas frowns.

“Do you? Either of ya?” Uraccen comments from the side.

“Tell me, is Rune or Farkas alive?” Aela pauses and frowns. “Vilkas. Do they live?”

“They do. It’s—A long story.” The words are accompanied by heavy guilt. Vilkas grits his teeth. The events following Gallows Rock lead to the events of Fort Dunstad. If Gallows Rock never happened—Perhaps _Vinci_ would not have become _Namira._ The man refuses to cry or show vulnerability in front of Aela or the Forsworn. Vilkas sucks in a sharp breath and nods. “They live, Aela. The Companions—We traded the life of the Silver Hand for Rune—”

“ _Please_ tell me the Silver Hand’s dead.” Aela tenses, but her eyes seek out an answer.

Vilkas looks to the side. “Don’t say that.”

“She’s responsible for you developing an obsession. I told you from the start she was a Silver Hand. We could never trust her. It doesn’t matter if you two had history or not; you _can’t_ trust a Silver Hand. Especially when you become biased and _obsessed—_ ”

“I _wasn’t obsessed,_ ” Vilkas snaps before he can stop himself, patient reaching a breaking point. His fists clench; he leaps to his feet. His dark brown eyes narrow on Aela. The Harbinger growls at the other Companion. “I…”

He can’t bring himself to say the words. It hurts too much, even if it refers to _Vinci_ six years ago and not _Namira_ now. Vilkas feels his chest ache badly at the thought. The man shakes his head and hisses curses under his breath. _It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s gone off to kill herself. I can’t stop her! I don’t know where she is! I don’t know how to find her! She’ll die and all of this will have been for shit._

When he opens his eyes and looks back at Aela, Vilkas pauses. He finds the other Companion’s gaze dims as she peers at him. “…Vilkas… That bad?”

She asks about the unspoken feelings. The Harbinger feels heat creep into his face. He hears Uraccen snort and make a snide remark. Vilkas ignores the latter and forces out a, “She’s—She’s my friend.”

“As much a friend as _Skjor_ was to me?” Aela’s question is quaint and to-the-point. “Vilkas. Answer me.”

“Yes. Yes. Aela. Maybe even more than that.” The Harbinger sits back down and holds his head in his hands. _Does it matter now?_

“Vilkas.” When Aela says his name, the Harbinger grunts to acknowledge he is listening. The huntress sighs. “You asked how I survived. Yes? You still want to know?”

The man pauses. He looks up. “I do.”

“Uraccen, give me a spot of peace, I beg you.” Aela comments dryly as she stares at the Breton. The man grimaces and holds up his hands. Aela waits until Uraccen has moved to the far side of the cavern before she looks back at Vilkas. Her own eyes are sullen. She has heavy bags under her eyes, a crack in the tough and enduring huntress. “Well. Gallow’s Rock, then. I’m glad to hear Rune and Farkas live. Skjor did not.”

“It was a trying time for all of us.” Vilkas frowns. He holds off sharing Kodlak Whitemane’s demise.

“They lured me into a room. Me, an experienced werewolf, acting like some whelp… Tch,” Aela spits at the fire. It sizzles. She growls and carries on. “They had… already killed Skjor by then. Slit his throat. I’ll be honest, Vilkas.” The woman sighs and meets his gaze. “I lost control of myself when I smelled it. I saw… red. Nothing but red. I was not worthy of being a member of the Circle at that moment.”

The news takes Vilkas aback. His mouth hangs ajar. He remembers to close it after a second, but his eyes remain big and stunned as he listens.

Aela shakes her head. “Farkas saw the Silver Hand’s ambush. He knocked me out of the way. Those bolts would’ve killed me if they hit. I owe him my life, I do. Then… Rune arrived. We tried to fight them. They were armed beyond anything we expected. All I remember was being shot by a handful while Rune blasted them with his… He is Dragonborn. That Voice of his. He used it to _fight_ and he failed. I did not know that was possible.”

Vilkas shuts his eyes. He utters a soft, “…He carried the shame of that for a long while, Aela. Shame, that he was beat. Guilt, that he could not save you, Skjor. That he subjected Farkas to the Silver Hand’s cells.”

“Farkas was captured, then. May the Silver Hand burn in Oblivion.” Aela growls.

“Aela.” Vilkas strays from the conversation a moment and peers at the Companion. Her gaze is full of raw, primal anger at a faction no longer a withstanding threat.

The werewolf’s eyes meet his. Aela huffs. “Out with it, Vilkas.”

“Farkas. He… He should have died,” the Harbinger takes a long pause, picking through words in his mind before going on. The subject brings back terrible memories of how he almost lost everyone he cares most for. In a way, he _did_ lose many who he cares for. Kodlak was murdered and Vinci became Namira. The thoughts weigh on his mind. He tries to push them out. The man sighs heavily before he continues, “You remember Vinci?”

“The Silver Hand lady.”

“She’s… She’s braver than she knows.” The Harbinger says softly.

Aela squints at him.

Vilkas shakes his head. “Without her—My brother would be dead, Aela. We didn’t have a way of rescuing him. We didn’t _know_ where he was being kept. But the Silver Hand wanted Vinci. They traded Rune for her. Kodlak planned to follow them back to their camp, but they outmaneuvered us in a cave system. We lost them. We lost her. I lost her; should’ve lost Farkas, too. But… Vinci freed him.”

It still seems surreal. Looking back on it _feels_ surreal. Vilkas had drunk himself silly in the anger and grief he felt at losing not only Vinci but _his brother_. Rune had talked sense into the man and dragged him out to gather dwarven scrap. He never got to see Vinci on her apparent return to Whiterun. Even though he and Farkas initially suspected her to be Kodlak’s killer—That was proven false when a destroyed Silver-Steel crossbow was found in Whiterun a distance from the Skyforge. Farkas had explained to him the Hold Guards and himself pulled matching ammunition out of Kodlak’s corpse.

Six years is a long time.

Aela huffs loudly. The sound draws Vilkas back to the present. The werewolf gives him a long, hard stare before she grunts and shakes her head. “Perhaps… we misjudged her. We cannot apologize now, Shield-Brother.”

The comfort entailed in the term warms Vilkas’s heart. The Harbinger begrudgingly smiles. He tilts his head to one side. “Been a long time since you’ve called me that.”

“What else would I call you, Vilkas?” The woman snorts.

“Harbinger.” Vilkas pauses. He frowns at Aela’s eyes widening. The man recoils internally when he remembers she does not know of Kodlak Whitemane’s death. The Nord sighs loudly. “Aela, something you should know. Kodlak has… passed on.”

 _“What?”_ The words bring shock with them. Aela sputters and curses. She gnashes her teeth and rips at her hair but doesn’t pull out any more than loose, split strands.

“He was murdered by the Silver Hand.” Vilkas averts his gaze. A second later the man is hauled to his feet. Vilkas grits his teeth and eyeballs Aela while the woman effortlessly pulls him off the ground by the scruff of his shirt. The Harbinger’s eyes narrow. “Put me down.”

The werewolf doesn’t reply. She drops the Harbinger; Vilkas stumbles backward and narrowly keeps his balance. He brushes himself off and ignores the looks Uraccen and the Orsimar give him while he stares down Aela. The woman is a mess of emotions and overwhelming restraint to keep them all bottled up inside. Eventually, Aela lets out a deep breath. The werewolf’s eyes water. She wipes them and turns away. “…That’s it, then. Skjor, Kodlak… Those two. Gone. By Hircine—”

“The Companions still exist, Aela,” Vilkas offers softly. “Jorrvaskr stands. I promise—That hasn’t changed. We have new Circle members now.”

“I don’t want to know about them. It’s… It’s nothing like _my_ Companions, _my_ Jorrvaskr, Vilkas.” Aela snaps. Her fists tense.

From the side, Uraccen begins to sing a terrible, off-key tune. When Aela growls at him to shut up, Uraccen chuckles. The Breton cocks his head to one side and waves them both over. “Now, now, you never told us, _Vilkas of the Companions,_ friend, you were the Harbinger! Fancy that. Learn somethin’ new every day.”

“This isn’t the time.” Aela crosses her arms. Her gaze darkens.

“Mm. Sure it isn’t. See,” the Breton leans forward and gestures at Vilkas. “Word has it… this fellow? This… _Harbinger?_ He’s in for a couple years, friend.”

“Twelve, if I remember right.” The Harbinger grimaces.

It feels nice to hear Aela snort. The woman’s attitude is like a pendulum, swaying from one side to the other. Vilkas imagines the years have not been too kind to her. He doesn’t pry into how she went from Gallow’s Rock to _Markarth_ ; the fact she’s still alive is enough to fill in his imagination on possibilities.

“You’re Forsworn, aren’t you?” Vilkas decides to cut the conversation short. He anticipates Uraccen being the kind of person to dance around questions, cover up meaning, and sugar-coat words, but to his pleasant surprise the man side-eyes him and grins.

“Guilty as charged.” The Breton winks, a lively look for a man with gray-white hair and covered in wrinkles. “Most of us here are. The Silver-Blood family ain’t got respect for us… but they are keen to let us live to serve ‘em. Fuckers.”

“Do you,” The Harbinger glances across the cavern at the burly man guarding the cell door and corridor extending beyond it. His voice drops to a whisper. Vilkas inquires gingerly, “Do you know how I can talk to Madanach? The King in—”

“This’s a turn, it is.” Uraccen whispers back. His eyes drift across the cavern to the brute by the cell door. Uraccen gestures discretely at him. “See ‘em there? That’s Borkul the Beast. No one talks to Madanach, I’m afraid. Not without getting past Borkul the Beast. And you don’t want to talk to Borkul the Beast…”

“I’ve beat him one-on-one before.” Aela’s words are provocative. She looks ready to leap back into combat, likely spurred on by her inner wolf.

The Harbinger frowns. He turns and peers at the Orsimar in question, struggling to crane his neck and get a good look at the man in the low light of the mines. Borkul the Beast is an intimidating fellow. The orsimar is shirtless; thick, sturdy muscles bulge with the slightest movement from his torso and arms. He is beyond toned. His musculature is almost monstrous. He has a skull-like tattoo taking up most of his face. His green skin is eerie in the light. Vilkas doubts he can take the man head-on. He doesn’t see how Aela could ever beat him without use of her werewolf powers; Orsimar in general are known for their thick bone structure and hulking muscle mass.

Vilkas faces Uraccen and Aela. The man sighs softly. “…Aela. How did you beat him?”

“I was a wolf. Not allowed now, ‘pparently. Not unless they need an… execution.” Aela clears her throat. When the Harbinger glances, he spies a strange, shining metal choker clinging to the woman’s neck. A shimmer of enchantment swirls across the silver band’s surface.

It makes Vilkas ill. He despises the _blood_ but he would never resort to such measures. Though he is nowhere near the level of aversion he was six years prior, the man feels uncomfortable the longer he looks at the silver band. He cannot imagine the constant pain Aela lives with due to prolonged contact with the silver.

 _Maybe I don’t need to beat him. Maybe we can talk things out._ The Harbinger frowns. He needs to try it. The man rises to his feet and faces the Orsimar. He sees Borkul’s eyes on him; the Orc is no fool and has likely kept tabs on all three the duration of the conversation. Vilkas strides to the Orsimar but stops when he sees the man tense. The two eye each other a moment before Borkul the Beast snorts and stomps a foot.

“Well. Well. The new _meat._ So soft… So tender.” The Orsimar’s laugh is deep. “Let me ask you, new meat. What was it like killing your _first one,_ huh?”

It shouldn’t trigger a flashback, but it does. The Harbinger blinks and in a second he is not a man of forty-years-old, but a young adult just gracing twenty-one. He is an adult but still growing, a person whose brain has not yet peaked in development, and a person who has yet to fully move past the trauma embedded in his childhood years. In a second, the cavern of Cidhna Mine does not surround him, but that of Whiterun Hold at night. It has been a long time since the man reflected on such a memory; he recalls being no more than twenty-one yet feeling _immortal._ The ripe feeling of adrenaline and wind through his hair comes back when the flashback shifts him from human to wolf once more.

 _Run, run, run._ The words sing to him, beckoning him to take off in pursuit of his prey. He has never experienced such an exhilarating chase. Not even the bear hunt Skjor took him on compares to the rush of the _blood_ in his veins. It is a _force_ roaring through his body; every nerve feels like it is on fire. The only water he seeks for it is the rich red liquid found in his prey, a call for flesh derived of the wolf inside him.

He is in the throes of his first transformation, when berserk is but a word and not something to fear. He has no worries over self-control, because he has never suffered the horrors the _blood_ beckons. He has no one to hold him back, because Farkas is elsewhere and he is but a predator racing the wind. He seeks what he hungers for; he yearns to chase, to capture, to _devour_ and _destroy._

 _Chase, chase, chase._ Hircine’s call is intoxicating and drowns all logic. The words are no command but a suggestion he _eagerly_ takes on. The young man hurdles forward in his wolf form, at a speed rivaling a young stallion. The unnatural characteristics of a Daedric-stricken mortal benefit him greatly; he can smell every ounce of _fear_ falling from his prey in cold sweat. One inhale is all he needs to focus whenever his thoughts stray.

Gray clouds dust the skies overhead. In this flashback, he finds some of their details fuzzy. His brain is too attuned to the mess to come, to the shadows dancing with each prowl forward, and to the surge of bloodlust in the young man’s body. He blots out all but the chase, the goal, the prey, the _hunt_ , until the next call comes from the Huntsman and he responds in full, _feed, feed, feed._

The werewolf does not hesitate. He hears the frantic footsteps of his prey, an unfortunate merchant in his mid-forties who strayed too far from the safety of his caravan. The man is plump and well-fed. He has a pouch of jingling coin on him, but the werewolf has no interest in _money._ In his hunt, he is dead-set on the flesh and rich red that flows in the merchant’s body. Vilkas stalks forward and lets loose an inhumane howl of triumph right before he leaps and tackles the man to the ground. The shred of clothes, the screams of pain, and the delicacy of flesh satiates his inner wolf for a moment.

It is long enough for the young man to come to his senses and stop mid-feast.

Vilkas freezes and stares with wide, wolf eyes at the man below him. He tastes human flesh on his tongue, feels chunks in his teeth, and he sees the stains and gore tarnish his claws. The werewolf spits it out and staggers backward. He cannot speak, and he feels his inner wolf begin to stir again as the desire for a new hunt rises, but the man fights to keep the instinct buried inside him. He falls on his rear and stares beyond inhumane irises at the lukewarm, still-bleeding corpse but a foot away.

 _I made my own feast._ The young man feels his eyes well up. _I’m… just as bad as… as…_

“Enough!” Vilkas snaps out of the flashback and clutches his head. The headache pounds and throbs in his skull but he refuses to let the memory go on a second longer. He growls and hisses at no one but himself, at the shame that comes from his first hunt, at the guilt he will carry to his grave. When he gets ahold of himself, the man stills and looks up to see Borkul watching him with one hand on the grip of a pickaxe.

Aela looks baffled. Uraccen watches him with caution.

The Harbinger’s gaze dims. He grits his teeth. _I’m not like that anymore. I’m not… of the blood. I won’t be of the blood. I won’t be that monster. I’ll protect others. Not hurt them!_

“Shield-Brother?” Aela’s voice is soft and concerned, an unusual trait for her to take on. The situation must be worse than he perceives. In retrospect—Vilkas finds the response fitting. Aela never did hear of his first hunt; to Vilkas’s memory, he only ever shared the information with his brother, Skjor, and Kodlak.

“…Aela.” Vilkas drops his hands to his sides. He straightens upright and inhales slowly. The man looks from Borkul to Aela. His gaze becomes sharp and astute. “If anyone beyond this wretched city asks—I feel _horrible_ about it. Like my soul’s heavy with guilt.”

“Pah.” Borkul grunts loudly and shakes his head. The man looks away. “The gods have a place for killers. You can’t carry the burden? You’re weak.”

Vilkas feels his body shudder with rage. He has restraint, but this is a thin line. The man cannot stop himself from striding to Borkul and hissing at him. “I’ve carried the burden for _twenty-one years._ You call that weak?”

“Weakling. You ought show no remorse.” The Orsimar grins in his face, bold and brazen.

Vilkas has half a mind to take a swing. But the rational side of his brain clinks in and reels him back from the precipice of anger. The Harbinger’s eyes narrow. He ignores the man’s condescending remarks and states curtly. “—I’m here for your King.”

“Ain’t we all.” Borkul grunts.

 _“I need to see Madanach,”_ Vilkas asserts, louder this time.

The Orsimer looks him up and down. He is unimpressed. “You _need_ to see the King in Rags? _Fine._ Pay the toll, Nord. How ‘bout you get me a _shiv?”_

Vilkas hisses back, “I don’t have time to get you a _fucking shiv!”_

“Don’t got time for you, then. Come back with a shiv for me.”

“Shield-Brother.” Aela steps up to the Harbinger and pulls him back by the arm. Vilkas is grateful for her presence, even if he knows she carries her own anger and resentment toward him and all the other Companions. It is better to have a bitter Shield-Sibling by ones side than no Shield-Sibling at all.

“I need to talk to him. _Now.”_ The Harbinger repeats the sentiment. His hands ball up into fists. “I’m from _Karthspire branch._ ”

To this, both Borkul and Uraccen burst into laughter. Borkul shakes his head. “You? A _Nord?_ You’re no Forsworn. Pay the toll.”

“Anger won’t get you through all situations.” Aela’s remark is dry. It sounds closer to what he expects of her, of the Aela before she up and skirted death at Gallow’s Rock.

“Listen to the lady, _Vilkas of the Companions._ I ain’t budging till you pay the _toll_.” The Orsimar laughs again.

“I don’t _have a shiv._ ” The Harbinger wants to scream it at him.

He needs to get through. He needs to talk to Madanach. He needs to get the damn king out of Markarth so Kaie and him can go caroling around the Reach looking for Namira. He _knows_ the aspect has likely found several tombs by now. Whether any are adequate for a “burial” is beyond Vilkas. He can only hope she has not been successful, that he still has time, that things aren’t past the brink of no return. He has found the tiny speck of _hope_ in himself once more.

 _If I can find her, we can fix this. We can figure something out. I’m not letting her die alone! Not at the hands of that repulsive bitch!_ The Harbinger repeats the words in his head.

Borkul the Beast is truly a cruel man at heart. He tilts his head at the Harbinger and snorts. The Orsimar gestures at the tunnel leading deeper into the mine. “Then _find one._ Heard that dung heap Grisvar’s been known to make a few.”

“Grisvar the Unlucky, eh? Interestin’.” Uraccen’s comment is merry, but the man shuts up the second Borkul’s gaze turns to him.

Vilkas clenches his teeth. He doesn’t give either man a reply. He storms away from the two Forsworn, from the feeble fire pit, and to Cidhna Mine’s tunnels. He feels slight relief at the sound of Aela’s footsteps following him. When the latter puts a hand on his shoulder, Vilkas flinches and recoils away. The man spins on his heels and snaps. _“I’ll find the damn shiv!”_

“By Hircine,” Aela grunts aloud, gaze narrow on him. “What’s happened to lead you here, Shield-Brother? To make you like this? To be so desperate to talk to King in Rags?”

“A friend of mine is going to kill herself.” Vilkas spits at the ground. He feels anger ebb away and frustration kick in, directed entirely at himself and his inability to do _more._

“That all?” Aela’s brows rise. Her lips stretch in a taut frown.

 _She doesn’t believe me._ Vilkas stiffens. The Harbinger exhales sharply. His shoulders slump. “She’s the… Silver Hand lady, Aela—”

“Fucks sake,” his Shield-Sister breaks into a long spiel of cursing. Aela jabs a finger at him when finished. Her pale eyes have darkened, but not enough to stray from the inhumane gleam caused by being one of the _blood_. The woman growls. “You’re lucky I’m happy to see you. Anyone else, maybe not. You got some _fucking nerve_ being here and panicking because of _that Silver Hand chick._ ”

“I’m happy you’re _alive,_ Shield-Sister.” The Harbinger growls in return. “I didn’t ask for a _lecture._ I’ll do this on my own if necessary.”

“Oblivion, like I’d let that happen.” Aela’s words cut sharp. The pain reflected in her gaze reminds him of the way Rune looked when he first woke up following the “trade” between the Companions and the Silver Hand, six years prior. The pain invoked by potential loss, by the _fear_ of loss itself, is a terrible ache to dwell on.

 _I would know._ Vilkas shuts his eyes. _By the Nine. By the Nine. Please, guide me. Grant me a miracle. I don’t want her to die._

“We’ve both lived our lives, Shield-Brother. Plenty of misfortune to build a city,” Aela continues through his thoughts. The clang of pickaxes further in the mine ricochets off the mine walls. The woman sighs deeply. She looks at her feet. “I made the mistake of splitting up at Gallow’s Rock. Look where that got us. Where it got _Skjor._ ”

The Harbinger pauses. He opens his eyes and stares at Aela. Behind the huntress’s outspoken, blunt persona, is guilt. Vilkas feels his mouth hang open. He struggles to find the words, but spits them out all the same, “—It wasn’t—His death wasn’t your fault.”

“One day I’ll believe that, Harbinger,” It is the first time the woman has used his new title, but there is nothing warm or endearing about the moment. It feels hollow and empty to hear. Vilkas wonders if Aela uses it to acknowledge the deaths of her fallen Shield-Siblings. As the woman goes on, he quiets down and listens. “You are the first Companion I have seen in years. I do not intend to split up again. I won’t have more blood on my hands.”

 _It’s not your fault._ He tries to say, but he fails by the time Aela turns and begins to walk deeper into the mine. When Vilkas stands there, still as stone, the woman sighs and shouts back at him.

“You require a _shiv_ , Shield-Brother?” The werewolf grunts loudly. “Let’s find you a shiv!”

“Alright.” Vilkas says. He hurries to catch up with her, walking side-by-side with the werewolf for the first time in years. He may be in Cidhna Mine, but the Harbinger feels no closer to the King in Rags than when the guards first threw him inside.


	40. smarter than he looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas learns a little bit about the different prisoners in cidhna mine in his search for a shiv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii  
> been having some writer's block with this part of the story but still writing it, just slower ehehe  
> hope you all enjoy, thank you for reading (heart)

There are four other prisoners in the mine. Aela leads the way past most of them, offering simple introductions as she goes. The first of the lot is a tall Breton man with sharp cheekbones and weary, sunken eyes. The man is old, easily ten years past Vilkas or Aela, and he busies himself with a pickaxe at one of the silver ore veins.

“Braig,” Aela grunts. “The quiet one.”

The man hesitates long enough to lower his pickaxe and eye both Companions with suspicion. He has deep, vengeful hazel eyes, the kind Vilkas has seen on individuals with nothing left to lose. Braig catches the Harbinger’s stare and growls lowly. The man’s tussled hair is an unkempt mess, but it looks almost intimidating in nature when Braig straightens upright and jabs a pickaxe in Aela’s and Vilkas’s direction, “You got a problem?”

“We’re passing through,” Aela answers for the Harbinger. She takes Vilkas by the wrist and leads him further in the mine, through twisting caverns and tunnels held up by flimsy supports. Vilkas does not protest. The werewolf has more experience handling other prisoners and layout of the mine. In retrospect, it is a blessing of the Divines that he ran into Aela in Cidhna Mine of all places. It gives the two a common goal: escape the damn mine.

At the end of snaking tunnels and obtuse-shaped chambers carved from rock, Aela and Vilkas emerge into a grandiose cave littered with silver ore veins. The clang of pickaxes bouncing off veins of ore ring loudly and mix with the huffs and puffs of men at work. Two of the prisoners are Breton males, whereas the third is a Nord not unlike himself or Aela. One of the Breton men is unusually young, late-twenties at the most, with a partially shaved head and a dirtied mohawk of pale brown hair. The second is a man closer to Vilkas in age; the second Breton has thick, rippling muscles, a beard of burgundy salt-and-pepper hair, and long brown locks falling to his shoulders. Both Bretons make a point of halting in their work to stare at the two Companions, but the Nord ignores them and carries on picking away at ore veins.

“The young ‘un is Odvan, and the older goes by the name Dauch. The Nord’s who you want to talk to,” Aela crosses her arms and peers at Vilkas. “Grisvar the Unlucky. Keep an eye out for his _shiv_ , he’s known to stab prisoners he doesn’t like.”

“What will you be doing?” Vilkas frowns.

The werewolf shrugs. “Mining silver. Got to stay on top of things. You either keep yourself in fighting shape, or you keel over like a whelp. I am not a whelp, Shield-Brother.”

“Never was.” Vilkas snorts at the thought.

Grisvar the Unlucky is a bald man in his late forties. His prison garb is dirtier than the others, if such a thing is even possible, and has dried bloodstains hinting at past injuries. The man does not acknowledge Vilkas when the Harbinger strides to his side. Grisvar continuously picks at his ore vein, a look of unusual determination etched on his features. The man says nothing.

“I need a shiv. Heard you got a couple,” Vilkas cuts to the chase. There is no point dancing around the subject.

The man’s pale brown eyes narrow as Grisvar halts in his work. “Yeah? Funny how that works. You need something, I need something, it goes both ways.”

 _Talos help me._ Vilkas bites his lip. He keeps his composure wrapped around him. He cannot afford to snap in front of so many prisoners; the fact he temporarily lost his patience with Borkul and Uraccen was bad enough. He has a reputation to uphold, an image to maintain, and the very real preference of not having a shiv shoved in his body on a whim by the other prisoners. The man glances at Aela, who occasionally looks up between pickaxe swings on her vein of ore. Vilkas sighs and turns back to Grisvar. His eyes dim. “A’ight. Tell me what you want in exchange.”

“Bottle of the good stuff would do it,” the Nord grunts.

“Bottle of… You mean _skooma?”_ Vilkas stares.

Grisvar pauses. The dim light of torches cast strange shadows over his pasty white skin. “Skooma, good shit, moon sugar, don’t matter what you call it. I want it. Get me a bottle; I’ll trade you a real nice shiv I’ve been working on.”

 _Where do I find a bottle of skooma?_ Vilkas doesn’t voice the question. He bites his lip and returns to Aela. His legs have begun to ache from bruises of his earlier beating, but the man refuses to complain. He greets Aela with a grunt. She lowers her pickaxe and peers at him.

“Shield-Brother.” Aela tilts her head to one side. Her pale gaze is beyond unnerving the longer it lingers on his form. “Did you find what you need?”

“Guy won’t give it up ‘lest I have a bottle of skooma to offer,” the Harbinger exhales softly. He gestures Aela to come close then adds in a whisper, “Who here is likely to have a bottle in their possession? The guards?”

Not that he’s seen any lately. Vilkas wonders if the prison is a shitfaced hole for people to be dumped into and left to do their own thing. It would make sense; he has yet to see a single guard since he was dropped. _To be fair, I haven’t been here long. Maybe they come by in rounds. Patrol the mine. Account for ore, prisoners? How often they bring food and water?_

“They come but once a week.” The werewolf answers his questions. “They bring water. Nasty stuff, but it is water. They bring food if you meet their expectations in silver ore mined. Never skooma. That stuff has to be smuggled in, Harbinger.”

“Who here’s a smuggler?”

“Vilkas.” Aela frowns. “You are best asking them yourself. Some will not talk to me.”

“Because you’re a Companion?” The Harbinger pauses.

“Because I beat them in a fistfight. Sore losers, the lot. Reminds me of you when Rune joined.” The Companion’s remark holds a hint of humor, but even Vilkas finds the memory amusing when he reflects on it.

The Harbinger sucks in a breath. “A’ight. Thanks, Aela.”

The Harbinger decides to start with Odvan. The young Breton is hard at work picking at ore veins when Vilkas approaches. The man grunts at Vilkas to acknowledge him but continues working all the while. Up close, Vilkas can see the Breton has light brown skin opposed to white. His face has stubble but looks recently shaved. Vilkas does not want to imagine trying to shave with a _shiv_ ; he absentmindedly touches his own chin and grimaces at the scruff his fingers run across. He needs to shave when he gets out of the mine.

“You aren’t a Forsworn,” the younger man talks between swings of his pickaxe. Odvan grits his teeth and brings the tool down hard on his vein of ore.

Vilkas frowns. “That going to be a problem?”

“No. No problem.” Odvan grunts. “Just makin’ observations. You best move on. Others don’t care for lengthy conversations. By the waters, you best not be slacking if guards drop in for a _check_.”

The Harbinger squints at him. “A check?”

“Surprise visit, that. Usually—It’s when they got someone to feed to that beast,” the man pauses and glances in Aela’s direction. Vilkas feels his stomach twist painfully. He stares while Odvan goes on, “Nasty, nasty stuff. But, you know, it happens. At least the guards don’t beat the rest of us when they execute someone. But if it ain’t the death day of a prisoner—It’s a regular _check_. Measure ore we’ve mined. Count it up. Haul it away. Punish anyone who hasn’t done their job good enough, anyone who ain’t look ready to break. They’re smart.”

 _Then I best be smarter._ Vilkas thinks to himself. His gaze narrows. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good. Name’s Odvan,” the man introduces himself regardless of Aela’s earlier spiel. Odvan gives the Harbinger a once-over and snorts. “You’re some kind of Nord, you are. You look like the kind to paint the streets red in my kin’s blood. Don’t get any ideas here. You’re outnumbered—”

“—Vilkas, if we’re exchanging names,” Vilkas cuts him off. He crosses his arms. He needs the man to trust him. The man bites his lip, hesitating before he asks, “You’re younger than the rest. How long you’ve been in here?”

“Couple of years?” The man grunts. Odvan pauses to wipe sweat off his brow. He lowers his pickaxe to his side. “Been in here since I was but sixteen. A long, long time.”

 _I don’t want to be here a long, long time._ Vilkas swallows. The man bites his lip. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six.” Odvan turns back to his vein of ore.

“I’m sorry.” Vilkas says after a pause. The man frowns and looks away. “They robbed you of your youth.”

“They did. Greedy bastards, the lot. I can’t do anything to fix that, though. Part of the reason I call myself Forsworn. Some of us ain’t related by blood, but by our branches and the community inside it.” The man runs a hand through his hair. On closer inspection, the heavy bags under Odvan’s eyes are faintly visible even with the mine’s poor lighting. The Harbinger feels a ping of sympathy for the man.

“My brother and I,” Vilkas hesitates. He sees the younger man pause, temporarily fixated on him versus the silver ore. The Harbinger inhales deeply. “Our youth was robbed of us in a… different way. You have my sympathy.”

“Sympathy doesn’t fix shit.” Odvan grunts. The man shakes his head. “No, shouldn’t say that. I ‘ppreciate the…uh. Condolences, if you will. But at the end of the day—We’re still stuck in Cidhna Mine, and no one escapes Cidhna Mine.”

“No one _yet_. Time to change that.” Vilkas crosses his arms. The Harbinger tries to look tough, keeping his posture stiff and erect, but he imagines Odvan is a man with a sharp eye. His façade of composure can only last so long and fool so many.

To his surprise, Odvan stops. The younger man’s eyes widen. He looks around the mine quickly before dropping his voice to a whisper and saying, “What you mean?”

“I need to talk to your King.” Vilkas nods at his own words. “Madanach. I was sent here from Karthspire branch to assist in his escape from this plane of Oblivion. You know Vrechinn? Kaie? Ohdon?”

“Names are familiar, yeah.”

“Well.” The Harbinger lets his words settle. He shrugs.

Odvan straightens upright. He looks down at the pickaxe in his hands. “You… No, what I’m saying? You tryna get me to commit a crime? Conspiracy? Give the guards reason to cut me down?”

“What?” Vilkas groans audibly. He ignores the looks others give him and jabs a finger at Odvan, composure be damned. “No, no! By Mara, _no_. I ain’t with the Hold Guards. Vrechinn sent me here to help free the King. I know it isn’t…”

In retrospect, he realizes he does not look anything like a Forsworn from Karthspire. The members of the branch each had their own distinct styles, not just of hair but of piercings, of tattoos, and sometimes of ceremonial brands applied delicately to the arm or shoulder. Most of them talked a certain way, addressing the Daedric Princes as the _water_ , capable of sustaining and nurturing life, whereas he speaks of them like the Oblivion scum that nearly invaded Tamriel two-hundred-years prior. He is a Nord, a Companion, _the Harbinger_ of the Companions. Odvan does not have a reason to trust his words or what he says, especially not after the actions of the Empire across the Reach.

“You don’t believe me? Figures.” Vilkas bites his tongue.

“…Nords like you… You don’t get caught up in the Forsworn. Not like this. Not so easily.” Odvan comments quietly. “You get thrown in here and then what? Now you’re trying to make a case to see our King?”

“Already tried to talk to him, actually. Bhorkul didn’t let me through.” The Harbinger replies. “He wants a shiv, but a prisoner wants _skooma_ for the shiv. I always need something else. Never easy, it ain’t never easy. But I’ll do it. I got to.”

Odvan’s eyes reflect a surreal gleam to them. It reminds the man of Ohdon, in a way, but the gleam is lively whereas the Briarheart warrior is one of undeath.

“You sound,” the man’s voice drops in volume. “—Serious.”

“I am.”

“What’s at stake to ya?” Odvan begins to swing the pickaxe again.

“That’s not... Not relevant.” Vilkas’s eyes dim.

He misses Namira. No matter what name she goes by or what she considers herself, he misses her terribly. Everything from her taste to her touch to the way his arms fit so wonderfully wrapped around her waist when they travel on horseback. He misses her.

 _Is she even alive anymore?_ The Harbinger winces. He clears his thoughts of the subject. _No, no! I must stay… I need to be hopeful. For the future. I need to._

“Duach’s got an extra.” Odvan pauses and meets the Harbinger’s solemn gaze, “He… He isn’t privy to part with it easily, you best use a silver tongue or be ready to brawl.”

The words give him pause. He doesn’t know what to say, so Vilkas slowly nods and shifts his gaze to the side. The man inhales deeply. “…Thank you.”

Of the prisoners, Duach is the older Breton. He is busy at work with the pickaxe when Vilkas approaches. The Harbinger makes no attempt to mask his presence; there is little point in sneaking around in the open. He is greeted by Duach’s rough, coarse voice as the latter continues to mine away at his ore vein, “—You trying to start something? Talking to all us like that… Us prisoners get suspicious when a bloke like you goes around mucking about and demanding answers.”

The Companion frowns. He looks to the side but finds Aela still at her vein of ore, oblivious to all but the ore. There is no support for him beyond Odvan’s subtle hint. Vilkas grimaces. _Back to the tough act again._

“I know you have a bottle of skooma.” Vilkas picks his words carefully. The Harbinger grits his teeth. It isn’t like he has gone his life without fistfights and tavern brawls; his and Farkas have gotten up to one too many on dozens of occasions. The man growls at Duach, “—I want it. Hand it over.”

The Breton pauses briefly in his swings. Duach cracks a wide-eyed grin and leers at Vilkas from the side. “—What kind of greeting is that?”

“The kind that keeps your teeth intact.” The Harbinger steps forward and grabs the collar of Duach’s prison garb, the garment thin and feeble in Vilkas’s grasp.

“Don’t like the look of your scruff, Nord. You and your kinsfolk—Scum, all scum! Whenever I get out of here,” Duach spits in the Harbinger’s face. “I’m going to _kill_ a Nord. You got that? A real piece of work. Hope it is you.”

Vilkas shoves the Breton against the mine wall. “You a whelp or not?”

“You son of a dog—” Duach begins to cuss loudly. The man reels back and throws a swing at Vilkas, the pickaxe dropped in the heated moment. The Breton snarls when the Companion sidesteps his attempt to strike; Duach spins on his heels and shoves his elbow at the Harbinger’s gut.

It becomes painfully clear Duach lacks experience in close-quarters combats. The blows are too rough for a boxer, too crude for a trained fighter, and too clumsy to not snort at. Duach’s anger rises tenfold when Vilkas fails to contain his amused smirk. It is a subtle blow to the Breton’s ego; Duach’s movements become sloppy as he tries to throw his entire body weight into Vilkas. The Harbinger spots an opening and feints once before bringing one fist forward in a swinging uppercut. The yell that follows and the spurt of blood makes him remorseful, but his goals provide resolve; Vilkas grits his teeth and draws back while Duach grabs at the mine wall and sputters.

“Who in Oblivion are you, pal?” The Breton hisses at him. “All this for a shot of skooma?”

The Harbinger grimaces. He wipes off beads of sweat he hadn’t realized were falling off his brow. Vilkas feels the stares of the other prisoners on his back while he answers. “Hand it over.”

“Take the damn bottle.” Duach spits at the man’s feet. Vilkas has no doubt he has made a new enemy out of the Forsworn man, but he refuses to linger on it when more important things weigh on his back. He plucks the bottle out of Duach’s hands when the latter begrudgingly offers it. Duach gives him a glare before he picks up his pickaxe and returns to work.

Vilkas steps away. He walks to the center of the cavern and turns the skooma bottle over in his hands. He meets Aela’s gaze at last and glances at the corridor snaking back to the other section of the mine. The Companion catches the unspoken meaning; _Meet me there._

“Grisvar!” The Harbinger turns and eyes the Nordic man. Vilkas winces at the snort Grisvar makes when he approaches. The Harbinger feels tense and on edge holding up the bottle of skooma; his posture is not enough for the kind of façade he has taken once again. If he were younger, he might have roughed a person up to resolve a situation with no second thoughts. The idea of having to do it now, of going out of his way to force Duach into a brawl, it all leaves a bitter taste in the back of the Harbinger’s mouth.

“Well, well. You got it from that fellow? Easy to miss his hits, he got nothing on real fighters. Even I could take him.” Grisvar jabs the end of the pickaxe in the Harbinger’s direction.

Vilkas shoves it away. “The shiv.”

“You first.”

“Take it.” Vilkas extends the skooma to Grisvar.

The man feels nausea and relief filter through his body when the other Nord finally passes the small weapon over. The shiv is nothing special, the result of crude wrappings tying a chunk of a former pickaxe to a rough plank of wood, but it is a _shiv._ It is one step closer to breaking the King in Rags out. When Aela greets him at the start of the mine’s primary corridor, Vilkas offers the red-haired lady a weak smile. He holds up the shiv and the two begin the trek back. Aela does not offer much beyond an amused snort; Vilkas finds the silence is, for once, calming. The barest fragment of hope lingers in his chest.

He is in Cidhna Mine. _He,_ Vilkas, the Harbinger of the Companions, is in Cidhna Mine, all to conduct a jailbreak and throw honor into the wind. The thought almost humors him. He cannot help but turn the shiv over and over in his hands as he and Aela trek the corridor.

 _I’m doing this for you, Namira. I don’t know how… I can’t know how things’ll play out. But I hope you know—It’s for you. For you. And I’d do it again, ‘cause I…_ For a moment, he stops in his steps. The man stares at the shiv in his hands. Even without voicing the thought, he can feel every ounce of affection tucked away inside him, patiently waiting. He knows how he feels. He knows how _much_ he feels. He knows he is utterly smitten by the aspect of Namira, drawn to her in many ways. Her abrupt departure—and soul-shattering words—didn’t change that. Vilkas scratches his cheek with one hand.

He wants everything to be okay. He wants things to turn out alright. He wants Namira to be safe, and to be happy, and to be _alive_ without any of the bullshit Daedra involved.

“Shield-Brother.” Aela interrupts the thought.

“Mm?” Vilkas frowns and glances at her.

“I… do not know if they will let me talk to the King. You may be forced to confront him on your own.” The werewolf speaks quietly, almost with a note of regret or remorse.

“It isn’t a confrontation.” Is all Vilkas offers.

When he approaches Borkul the Beast, the latter has just finished cracking his knuckles and his neck. The Orsimar looks just as tough and unrelenting as before, with a toothy snarl and dark eyes emphasizing his ability to take a hit or two.

 _Or twelve._ Vilkas grimaces. He forces his nerves to settle. He makes his thoughts redirect to the present and to the future, specifically to the thought of seeing Namira again, to being able to introduce her to his niece and nephew, to listening to her talk about gourds or armor or smithing. The thought of her gives him comfort, even with the brute of a man staring him down but few feet away. Not even the corrupt Hold Guards could interfere with the sliver of peace he clings to.

“I got your shiv,” Vilkas clears his throat. He hands it over to Borkul. “I need to see Madanach.”

“Hmm…” Borkul turns the weapon over. He pretends to examine it in what little light the mine has. The man snorts, shrugs, and tucks the shiv into a back pocket of his trousers. He nods slowly at Vilkas. “A’ight. Head on in. But don’t try _anything_ in there. Madanach… The King’s smarter than he looks. Smarter than you think. Don’t push him.”

“I don’t intend to.” Vilkas replies.

When Borkul stands aside a now-open gate, the Harbinger gives Aela a glance before he trudges forward. The man pauses when he hears Borkul grunt. Vilkas flinches and turns around in time to see the orc’s arm extend out across the gated corridor, blocking Aela from advancing. The werewolf snaps in a second and turns to the Orsimar. “You think you can keep me back?”

“Only he gets to go in.” Borkul warns.

“I’ll be fine, Aela. Shield-Sister.” Vilkas voices the words softly. He nods at Aela.

She holds his gaze a second before stating softly, “Tread lightly, Shield-Brother. We have only just been brought back together. I prefer you not wind up in multiple pieces.”

“I’d prefer the same. Don’t worry about me.” The Harbinger replies. He turns back to the corridor and stares at the end of it, where it ducks behind a corner and to the right. Vilkas feels his gut twist uncomfortably. _Time to meet the King._


	41. music and merriment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aspect of namira has run into trouble during her search for a tomb to bury herself in. for a moment, she leaves life behind and experiences a strange dream in the company of a deadly daedric prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has some references not everyone may get but hopefully it still works!!!  
> -references to chapter 15 "disappointed again"  
> -A LOTTA REFERENCES TO DAEDRABORN  
> -also sanguine is quite an ass in this just a heads up  
> yay

The world is full of music and merriment. It is not an environment she remembers walking into, but she acknowledges she is not of the waking world in that moment. Her form is not ethereal, nor is it the disembodied spirit she anticipates an afterlife being, but rather it is a solidified form with no hint of undead. It has her fair skin and long black hair cascading in a mess down her back. She cannot help but run very-human fingers through it, picking and dragging her nails across her scalp with locks in her grasp. Unlike Nirn, she is a living, breathing human with no ties to the Daedric Prince she is enmeshed in. Her tunic is long and homely, of a deep, dark brown with bell sleeves and a comfortable bodice ending at her neck. It is warm but not hot, soft but not irritating, and it feels like the kind of attire she can only dream of, because it is a dream.

She has heard stories of this realm. Those tales came from a world of Silver Hands and the silver-steel weaponry produced in their forges. It was a different time, one where Reeves and Krev and Tulle told her the tales of the different planes of Oblivion. She was once warned against the abilities of Daedra, of _et’Ada_ as so fondly spoken of by Forsworn branches. Reeves once hinted that he himself had an experience with encountering a Daedric Prince in a dream. According to him, powerful entities could get bored and seek out new toys to play with.

 _Is that what this is? A toybox? Am I a toy now?_ The words do not belong solely to her, for she is not just Leilani but _Namira_ , but she thinks them all the same as she steps down a hall with a clean, polished floor and decadent interior. The sounds that come from grand feasts and repeating bedchambers range in everything from the morbid gluttony of man to the cry of ecstasy imbued in a creature’s climax. It is not only man and mer who reside; the aspect finds herself at a loss for words when she first stumbles upon the sight of a well-dressed humanoid with pitch black skin and horns atop his head.

 _Dremora._ She knows the word. She feels her throat become dry, riddled with increasing nausea and anxiety over what all of it means. The music of the realm continues even though she feels like everything stops. _What plane of Oblivion is this? What part am I in? Where’s Namira? Why isn’t she here with me? Why isn’t she here?_

The cruel irony of wanting to hide behind another Daedric Prince in response to one Daedric Prince’s realm wears on her. She feels her hands begin to shake. Her heart starts to pound in her chest when the Dremora at the end of the hall waves away two scantily-clad elves and turns to her. The Daedra wears a strange two-pieced suit, one perhaps only ever heard of in fairytales or the Summerset Isles, but that is not the only thing off about him. Leilani is horrified to see a gracious smile on the Daedra’s face, accompanied by a twinkle in the Dremora’s eyes that only grows at the sight of her mortified expression. Her mouth hangs open even as the butler strides to her side and takes a bow.

“Welcome, Lady Namira, to the Myriad Realms,” The Dremora straightens upright, one arm clasped behind his back with utmost formality. “Naturally speaking—This must be your first time here in a millennia, no? Such a turn of events to have the Lady of Rot gift us with her presence!”

“The Lady of Rot.” Leilani Whitemane whispers.

She had almost forgotten she was the aspect of Namira.

Namira’s gaze dims. She looks away and begins to wring her wrists. The nerves in her body feel like something come out of the College of Bards in Winterhold; she envisions, briefly, a musical instrument whose strings are plucked one-by-one until a grievous ensemble is complete. To her distress, the strange Dremora in front of her maintains his stare; he never once looks from her even as a tense pause settles in.

 _How do I get out of here?_ She wants to breathe, to voice, to beg, but she holds back. She barely knows Namira; she has _no_ idea how to approach other Daedra, especially in her own mind.

“Lady Namira, I understand you are not… on _par_ with this realm and the way we operate. A true sin, yes, truly, for you have missed out on many indulgences in your search for rot. But my Lord welcomes all! He is a gracious and considerate Lord! He will satiate any desires you hold!”

“Your Lord—” The aspect cuts herself off. She holds her tongue when the butler, when _Sullivan_ , grabs her arm and loops his arm with hers. It feels wrong. She wants to shove him away instinctively, but she is outside of any possible comfort zone. When Sullivan pulls forward, she walks.

It becomes obvious which Daedric Prince the butler serves over the next minute of walking. The corridors stretch _forever_. It feels like centuries come and go in the time it takes for Sullivan to escort her from one convoluted hall to another. Along the way, the two pass wanton embraces and rooms full of nude people. She doesn’t dare look in the event any are recognizable. She fears the thought of finding someone like Krev or _Emile_ in such a plane of Oblivion; the likelihood of it happening is minuscule but her mind doesn’t care about what is or isn’t rational thought anymore. When the duo emerges into a gargantuan feast hall, Namira stills. Color drains from her face.

The patrons of the feast have halted in their disgusting desire to indulge. Most of the patrons look unhappy or impatient; each of them stares at _her_ in anger. The connecting tables are full of trays of food, perhaps more food than she has ever seen before in her life. Cakes and turkeys, pheasants and scones, taffy upon taffy and steaks cut to precision, it is all there. The roasted snouts of mammoths waft a rich aroma through the hall. Stuffed potatoes, smoked salmon, and wine run in abundance in bowls and bottles. There is no end to the gluttony. There is no end to indulgence. It is too much not to feel nauseous at, but even in her nausea she continues to hear the music of merriment ring in her head.

Large windows of the hall reveal the sky outside to be a deep, swirling purple. Fireflies dance through the air beyond the building. Namira wishes she could be like them, floating aimlessly and freely, but her mind returns to the god at the end of the hall’s tables. She doesn’t dare speak his name, but it is irrelevant as Sullivan speaks it for her.

“Lord Sanguine, I found Lady Namira lost in the halls of the Myriad Realms! Naturally speaking, it was imperative I see her safely escorted to _you_ ,” the Dremora butler speaks cheerfully. It isn’t right to hear such a dangerous entity disregard the brutal bloodthirst innate in all Daedra. “Shall I take my leave, my Lord?”

At the end of the table—the _god_ of Indulgence, of Hedonism, and of Debauchery holds up a hand. The Prince uncorks a bottle and throws his head back to take a long swig of the contents. Namira notes he sits on a throne, befitting every bit of power she knows he has.

“Everyone, _out!”_ the Daedric Prince bellows the words. The merry music freezes only a second before it resumes, this time accompanied by groans and grumbling of various species at the table.

Namira watches creatures of different origins leave. She sees wood elves, high elves, even Nords like herself, and she sees creatures she could not imagine existing as a mortal walk past her in a single-file line. She stares and gawks at sultry Daedra mingling with Breton and Imperial humans, the latter just as imbued with the Daedra as they are with them. She shudders when one of the Daedric beings catches her eye and wolf-whistles. Sullivan offers an apologetic smile. The smile feels less genuine when the Dremora grabs her arm again and half-pulls her along the hall and up a set of ascending chairs and tables to where the end of the table, to where the _god_ , lingers in his throne.

He is a terrible presence to look at. Namira feels her blood freeze over when the deep sanguine-red eyes sweep her form. She fears the power he holds, and she loathes the Daedric Prince for existing in the first place when so many mortals suffer from Daedric influence. She will never call herself a Silver Hand again, but she feels the group’s influence linger lightly.

The woman finally gives in and clenches her eyes shut after a long pause. She cannot stand the god’s sight. She is a trembling mess, nothing more than a fly to swat away in comparison.

“You don’t come by often, Namira.” The god’s voice drifts into her ear. She flinches backward at the feeling of the entity’s hot breath on her earlobe.

“Do you require my assistance in handling her, my Lord?” Sullivan’s voice is eerily calm.

“Don’t kill me,” she whispers, and then she finds it in her to repeat it again. “You can’t—You mustn’t!”

Gods, no, if she dies in the realm of a Daedric Prince then all will be a waste. She has struggled with Namira for so long. She needs to continue. She needs to trap her physical body in a cave, not die and leave it all for Namira to take over! She won’t give up that easily; she has to continue. She must. She will.

When she opens her eyes, the woman sees the god is a much a monstrous behemoth as he should be. The deity is easily seven, perhaps even eight feet in height, with frightening void-black skin. Licks of red like scars curls around what of the god’s neck is visible. He has large Daedric horns, coiled like a snake ready to strike. He could gore her in an instant. He could squash her like a gnat. He is everything she will never be, because an aspect is only a sliver compared to the true wrath of a god. When the Daedric Prince sees her fearful stare, he snorts and turns to the butler at her side. “She’s not our Lady of Rot. She’s… the aspect.”

“Oh! Why, my most sincere apology, aspect of Namira! To think I mistook you for Lady Namira!” The Dremora releases her and steps back. Sullivan smooths down his uniform and bows. “I will leave you two to it, my Lord!”

When he has retreated to the hall’s grand entrance and disappeared into the corridor beyond, Namira feels the eyes of a god rest on her. It horrifies her. She tries to inch backward, but all it does is make the god laugh with amusement at her feeble antics.

“Don’t kill me,” the aspect of Namira pleads softly.

“I’m not known for promises, aspect.” The Lord of Debauchery sits down in his throne. He throws his legs up on the table.

Namira swallows when she realizes he wears a nigh-full set of Daedric armor. The metal has grievous enchantments of red magic, each embedded deeply in the material. In a fight, he will win. Without the power of a god—He will win. She has nothing.

“Like what you see? No—Don’t answer that, I know the answer,” the god continues with a wave of his hand. “Come! Take a seat. You need to unwind…”

She does not know when she sits at the table directly right of him, but she does. Her hands are already on food before she can stop herself. The power of the god’s presence fills her head-to-toe, an unknown but visceral feeling perforating her dream’s body. Namira struggles to put a leg of turkey down; she throws her cutlery away and fails to push her chair out from the table. She sees why when the god begins to clap, amused. He stands directly behind her. His presence imposes on her, it blocks her from escaping the chair, and she is left stuck at a feast she had no intention of joining.

“—I thought you’d have less hesitation in coming here,” The god notes dryly. “But you… fear this place. Don’t you? Tch, knew I should’a got the new carpeting in last week…”

 _Carpeting?_ Such a luxury escapes Namira, but when she looks, she sees that the floor is in fact a beautiful wine-mauve color. She hesitates before touching her foot to it. It is silky smooth, nigh irresistible in texture. Namira realizes with a sharp intake that she is barefoot. She doesn’t remember if she wore shoes when Sullivan was presence, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Oblivion, relax! Relax. Really.” The god’s words draw her from her thoughts.

Sanguine sits in his throne and leans backward. He slouches in a way that reminds her of a Jarl. It is almost pompous, but where Jarls have limited and finite power, Sanguine is _godly_. When the vivid red eyes fall on her again, she freezes in place.

“I’m not here to hurt you. Not yet.” The Prince of Indulgence voices sharply. He picks up the bottle of wine from before and pours a glass of rich red liquid. The god extends it to her. Against better judgement, she finds herself reaching for it.

When Sanguine stares, it dawns on her he intends to have her drink it. The aspect of Namira stiffens. Her hands become cold and clammy; the drink shakes from her trembles.

“Go on,” the god before her instructs. He tilts his head to one side. “You can’t resist it, can you?”

She can’t. It is likely magic, but she doesn’t care. Her willpower dies and she throws her head back and gulps the liquid down. It is sweet as berries with a sharp tang hitting the back of her throat afterward. Namira begins to cough and heave; she throws the glass aside and grabs her throat with one hand. She feels a scar run from her jaw down across her neck. The woman shudders in her seat and whispers softly, “Why?”

“You’re still part mortal, funny enough. Just wanted to… _confirm_ that.” Sanguine snorts and shakes his head. “By Oblivion, you have some fucking timing. But you aren’t here to fuck, huh? Pity. Perhaps not. I am still trying to figure out why the aspect of Namira’s come all the way to the Myriad Realms for good ol’—"

“I’m not here for you.” Namira cuts him off immediately. She has enough strength to make that clear; her heart belongs to a Nordic man who deserves everything she cannot be.

“No. No, you are. See—Unless a Sanguinite got involved and influenced ya to pop by—You’re here to see me. You may not believe me, but I _know_ what you desire. You’re seeking a certain kind of… audience. The kind of audience,” Sanguine’s breath falls on her earlobe again, raising all the hairs on the back of her neck. The Daedric Prince pauses. “—You can’t find in Mundus. The mortal realm. That bad, huh? A real _shitshow.”_

Namira holds her tongue. Her mind struggles to think. _Is the wine magic, too?_

“No, it ain’t.” The Lord of Debauchery shakes his head. He straightens upright and puts a hand on her head, the gauntlet resting among her tufts of black hair.

The woman stares at a bottle of wine on the table. Her nerves rattle when she finds a pair of blue eyes staring back at her.

“I’m amused. You have nothing to say to me. Not even a, _‘thanks, Uncle Sanguine!’_ for saving your ass? Binding flesh to form? Ungrateful.” The god grimaces. He moves to his throne and sits back down. His eyes hold many secrets. The repulsive ruby sight invokes both awe and fear inside Namira.

“Thank you,” She offers softly, the only solace in the face of overwhelming power. “For… helping me.”

“Won’t happen again.” The god warns.

She looks at her lap. _I know. I know. No one can help me. Not even Vilkas. Not even a Prince. I don’t want a Prince’s help, anyways. I didn’t want Sheogorath’s and I don’t…_

The inhale of breath that comes from the god at the table makes her pause. She flinches against the back of her seat when it dawns on her she voiced the thoughts aloud. The ruby red gaze of the Lord of Debauchery momentarily shines with something Namira does not anticipate: surprise.

In a second the demeanor of the god feels grotesquely mortal. He sits upright and stares at her, a dozen questions on his lips yet nothing falling free. Namira finds she can push the chair back from the table; she pries herself free of the seat and backs away. She wrings her wrist with increased speed as her anxiety slowly spikes.

“I want to wake up—How do I wake up?” She breathes aloud.

Sanguine purses his lips. He curses in a language she does not fully understand, the old Daedric words too much for her mortal half to comprehend. When the god finishes his spiel, he growls at no one and picks up a new bottle of wine. His strength rips the cork free from the bottle’s rim. “Oblivion, Kara, what in all thousands of the Myriad Realms are you doing?”

“Kara?” The name is barely familiar, a part of an unpleasant memory of years past. Namira throws her hands up when the Daedric Prince returns his gaze to her. “I—I don’t _know_ what you’re talking about!”

“Sheogorath. What help did she offer you?” Sanguine snaps the words; he tightens his grip on his wine bottle and takes a quick swig. When Namira doesn’t reply, he barks out the order, “Tell me.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember—It was—I don’t know!” The aspect begins to sputter. When the god rises to his feet, Namira’s eyes grow wide and she begins to step back. It is an instinctive response; she knows there is no point in trying to outrun a Daedric Prince in _his own realm_. It doesn’t matter if it is her dream or not; she does not write the rules.

Sanguine is behind her in a second. She doesn’t have time to react before she is lifted off her feet by the scruff of her dress, held dangling like she is no more than a small child or dog. The god’s eyes are dangerously thorough in how he seeks out her attention and locks unto her. There is no merriment in his gaze, only ambition.

 _“What_ did she say?” the Lord of Debauchery strains his words, hissing through his teeth like a feral animal.

Namira’s body goes limp. She whimpers loudly. “I don’t—Remember—”

“You can. You will.” Sanguine commands her.

Her eyes well up with tears. She feels as small as a child, maybe smaller.

“I can’t—” She speaks like it is a plea for mercy. In a way, it is. The woman’s voice croaks out in whispers, almost childlike in a rapidly approaching dissociative state. “She—She scares me—I don’t—I told her I didn’t want her help—I don’t want—Nothing—Nothing to do with her—”

The Daedric Prince might not have sympathy, but he does not strike her down. The god sets her on her feet and shuts his eyes. He takes deep breaths to compose himself. “…Oblivion… Kara… What in Mundus and Oblivion alike makes you want to help an aspect of Namira?”

 _Help an aspect of Namira… Help me. She said her name was Kara. But she was the vendor. She was the vendor, and the Prince. And… someone else?_ Vaguely, Namira recalls the Prince of Madness showing her a memory once. It did not play out to the end, as she made the Prince end it prematurely. The aspect glances at Sanguine. She frowns. It is not right of her, but part of her cannot help feeling a sliver of pity for the Daedra. It is clear something wears on him, much like the weight of her fate weighs on her, and she cannot help wondering if his problems share the same theme of helplessness.

“She said,” the aspect whispers softly. She flinches at Sanguine’s gaze returning to her; the woman averts her line of sight to the table of stacked indulgences. “She said some people called her Kara. She said—A long time ago—Some people called her Sloan.”

The glimpse of mortality, of weakness, of _concern,_ does not go past Namira. She watches Sanguine carefully; she prays he does not take her words as reason to erase her existence and let Namira take control of her physical form for good.

“So, you can remember.” The god utters. He grits his teeth.

Namira hesitates. She does not feel bold, only foolish, but she goes on to ask, “…Is she someone important to you?”

Sanguine’s silence is his answer. He walks past her and returns to his throne. The god reaches over the side of the throne and pulls out a new bottle of wine. He uncorks it. This time, he swallows it down in a long, nigh-impressive series of gulps. The Daedric Prince exhales afterward and grits his teeth. He gestures at the entryway of the hall. “Go. Walk far enough, you’ll walk outside. There’s half-a-dozen Oblivion portals you can use if your… If your consciousness doesn’t stir.”

“I’m sorry,” Namira states softly. She backs away from the Daedric Prince, but she does not flee the grand hall. Her body wants to go, but her mind retains control for a second. It is long enough for the aspect of Namira to offer a solemn, “I hope you find a way to… Reach her.”

The god is already in the middle of uncorking another bottle, this time of sweet honey mead. “That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“—Because— _aspect,_ she’s a _Daedric Prince._ She’s a Prince with the power of two Princes! She’s entropy!” The god begins to curse in the same old language as before; the ancient Daedric goes over Namira’s head spite of her attempts to understand any of it. Sanguine chugs the sweet honey mead. He groans and throws the bottle to the side of the hall. He holds his head in his hands and hisses to himself, “—Why did you go and do it, Kara? Why’d you have to save him?”

Leilani’s blue eyes dim. For a moment, she feels like she looks not at a Prince in the sense of a _god,_ but a Prince in the sense of a mortal. She wonders how it got to that point; Daedra are mystifying and terrible beings but clearly some of them display traits beyond common Daedric perception. The Forsworn receive blessings from them, channeled through the roots of the Hagravens and given the honorable title of _waters._ The et’Ada are more than what she understands. Even if she is technically one, she does not grasp how a god could possible feel raw, real emotions like that of a mortal.

“She said a lot of strange things,” The woman states. She does not want to cry, but her emotions are running on a high of nerves and fear. She wipes her eyes. At Sanguine’s nod, she goes on. “Things I… do not understand. She said—I made a claim. A claim on someone she’s trying to protect. On one of the few people she’s trying to protect. I don’t know what that means.”

“You shouldn’t.” The god remarks. He grunts at her to continue.

“Well—I don’t.” Leilani slumps her shoulders. “She got angry at me. I don’t remember everything she said. It was—It would have been six years ago. But I remember,” for a moment, she hesitates. Her mind strains to reach that far back, to seek out the recesses of her memories and pry the thoughts free. She winces and rubs her temple. “I remember she told me—She lost everything. Everything becoming herself. It was to save people.”

Sanguine shakes his head. “Fucking Kara.”

“Who is she?” Leilani drops her hand to her side. She flinches at the god’s steely glare. “Sorry.”

“She’s _Kara._ And now she’s… Sheogorath.” The Lord of Debauchery grits his teeth. He runs a hand through tufts of onyx-black hair, a frightening match to the void of his skin much like his sanguine-red eyes are to the red marks visible on his neck. Leilani opens her mouth to comment but when Sanguine holds up a hand she shuts up immediately. Sanguine parts his lips. He tilts his head to one side and intones, “You were told all this for a reason. She wouldn’t tell you shit without a reason.”

“She said—She was trying to help me. She tried to… I don’t know. Give me a _life lesson?_ Through a memory. Through _her_ memory—”

“Which one?” His voice fails to hide the desperation deep within it.

“I didn’t… I couldn’t tell. It was a place that had a red sky. Black buildings,” Leilani pinches the bridge of her nose and grimaces. She holds off the nausea that begins to rise in her stomach at the thought of it all. “She showed me a row of cellblocks. There was… There was a second her there, talking to a man with gingery hair. That’s all I…” In a second, a terrible headache seizes her mind. She cries out in pain and grabs at her head, hissing all the while against a terrible, continuous throbbing. The woman struggles to focus, to think, to _speak_ with the headache railing against her. “—No—There was—One other—There was—One more—A prisoner—He looked like—”

 _Like Rune. Like the Dragonborn. He looked like the Dragonborn. No, he was the Dragonborn. I’m sure of it. It was him in that memory, in that cell. Why was the Dragonborn in a cell? How did he get there? How did he become…_ None of it makes sense, yet enough pieces together in the woman’s mind for her to grasp weakly at understanding. Her eyes remain big and wide. She feels the headache linger but the throbbing fade as her thoughts settle. The aspect of Namira turns to face Sanguine and stares at him with an empty look.

“—Why was the Dragonborn there? Why did they have him in a cell? A _prisoner?_ Rune’s not— He’s not a bad man—”

“He should have died,” Sanguine cuts her off. His eyes grow dark and furious, but his tone reflects a gravely cold bitterness rather than rage. “You’re a sliver of a Prince, little aspect. You got any idea what he did? What that sorry sack of flour put her through?”

Namira’s eyes dim. “No. I don’t.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sanguine stands up. The god snaps a finger and his armor melds into a lush robe, smooth and carrying a sheen of red against velvety black fabric.

“What does it have to do with her? Kara. You keep calling her Kara. But… She’s Sheogorath, isn’t she?” It is a foolish thing to do, to press a matter with an entity as devastating as a Daedric Prince. For a moment, she wonders if the god will smite her on the spot, purge her from the levels of Oblivion and leave her to succumb to Namira’s rot and decay.

He doesn’t. The Prince huffs. “She’s Kara to _me._ I don’t care if Sheogorath’s... She’s still Kara. Somewhere—In that shitshow of a Prince… She’s in there. She’s trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Safe from me?” The woman asks.

Sanguine snorts. The thought must be amusing to him. “—Not just the Lady of Rot, aspect. From… A lot of others. Lord of Order, to name one. Queen of Murk. Those titles don’t make sense to you, do they?”

“No.” Namira averts her gaze. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? That I don’t know. Because, ultimately, she _is_ opposed to me—the actual me. To Namira. Sheogorath opposes Namira. Does that mean,” the woman has no intention to seek it out, yet her gaze absentmindedly trails back to Sanguine’s ruby red eyes. They are a powerful thing, repelling yet breathtaking wrapped in one. She bites her lip. “Do you oppose me?”

“I should. And I do, if you wanna get real _deep_ in the technicalities of it all. Fucking legislation.” The Daedric Prince snorts at his own words. His eyes darken; the sight is enough to make goosebumps form up and down the aspect’s arms and legs. Sanguine grits his teeth. “I’m opposed to _Namira._ ”

“I am Namira.” Namira remarks.

“Are you?” The Lord of Debauchery raises a brow. His lips turn up at the edges into an amused smirk. The sudden shift in tone makes Namira wary.

“I am.” She repeats.

“You’re a… _sliver_ of something beyond understanding. You’re a _mistake._ You know that—You should’a died. In a way, you did.”

“Leilani Whitemane—”

 _“What?”_ Sanguine rises to his feet. He cracks his neck and kicks an empty bottle down the descending steps of the hall. It cracks on the third step and breaks. The Daedric Prince turns back to Namira and sizes her up. She knows he can snap her in half like a twig, a branch, or a piece of hay. Sanguine grins wickedly. “She died, sure. You know how the story goes.”

“It was an interrupted summoning. It—It failed—The aspect didn’t contain Namira’s spirit! It—It melded—”

“Leilani Whitemane to you, yadda, yadda, yadda, moving on,” he disregards her words entirely and reaches for a new bottle of wine. Sanguine uncaps it with one quick motion and takes a swig, exhaling in delight after. “You keep telling yourself a lie. You know that, right? Saying you’re just Namira. Saying you _possess_ the memories of a dead kid, like you up and bought them at a store! Fucking cold. No. I don’t think that’s it. _You_ know it isn’t. You know…”

It astonishes and terrifies her how quickly the entity moves. In a blink of an eye, he is alongside her with one hand propped on her shoulder. The gesture makes the two out to be something like old friends, but the grip is iron-clad and ensures she does not go anywhere. Namira doesn’t dare try to break free; she freezes in place and eyes the god with an unspoken plea of mercy.

“All the summoning did—It made the body of an aspect. But! But, but, _but_ the sliver of Namira didn’t have a spirit to run it,” Sanguine’s other hand, the one holding his half-empty bottle of ale, gestures wildly through the air. “What a coincidence! The spirit of a recently deceased Nord _just so happened_ to be present! A soul that wasn’t ready to die yet. A soul that wanted to live. Leilani Whitemane.” He releases her and leaves her standing there, nausea churning knots in her stomach.

She holds a hand to her mouth. It is the reason why _Namira_ keeps calling her by that name. It is obvious, far too obvious, but the realization makes her want to hurl. _Vilkas was right. Vilkas… He kept… He believed Leilani was in there. In me. Somewhere. That… That…_

The woman cannot bear to think any more about it. Acknowledging the news means admitting her actions will hurt Vilkas more than she can bear. Namira—Leilani?—sways where she stands. Her hair begins to thin; the woman cannot stop it from falling out in great chunks of black until a moat of ebony flanks her on all sides. Rot erupts from her right arm starting at the palm and she screams and grabs at herself to no avail as the magical necrosis eats through flesh and leaves part of her body in the limbo of undeath, kept alive only by Namira’s doing. She thinks about her eyes, about the blue gaze she saw in the reflection of the bottles, and the woman scrambles and drags herself to the feast hall’s table. She barely finds a reflective glass fast enough to catch sight of her eyes melting in their sockets.

Green eyes rise from viscous gore. The pupils are dead and the irises devoid of any gleam of life. It is a reminder of what she is, of what role she serves to the Daedric Prince of Rot, and of her helplessness in stopping Namira from breaching the borders of Mundus. She is not capable of keeping the world, of keeping Vilkas and Farkas specifically, safe. She never was.

“By the Nine, someone help me,” Leilani Whitemane pleads aloud. Her dead eyes well up with tears. “I don’t—I can’t… I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m hurting him. I’m hurting Vilkas. I’m hurting everyone I care about—"

“Yep.” Sanguine sits in his throne. He leans back in the seat and grunts. “Sucks to suck, aspect, but I can’t do much more for you. Not like this, not here. You don’t know how to summon me. And I—I ain’t sure I could help you if I tried. Too busy keeping an eye on Sheogorath for her next fuck-up.”

“Please!” Namira-Leilani-Namira spins to face the Daedric Prince. Her cheeks burn from the tears. The dream feels too real to be a dream anymore, but she cannot make out what is or is not actually happening in her dissociative state. “Please! Lord of Debauchery! _Please,_ I’m begging you—I need—I need someone to help me—I can’t do this on my own! I can’t!”

 _“But you won’t be alone. You’ll have me. I would never hurt you, Leilani. I’m giving you a home. I’m giving us a home. A home in the darkness… For my beloved, soiled lamb.”_ The voice drifts in and the world fades to black. The Ancient Darkness wraps itself around the woman’s soul and in a second she finds all willpower to stay in the dream die.

Her body jerks awake in the waking world when the bandits slam her head against the wall a third time. She can feel her blood running down her face, exposed and without the safety of her ebony helm. She can scarcely find time to gulp in air before one of the bandits grabs the back of her head and shoves her forward into the rocks. Leilani gurgles a cry of pain; her nose does not feel right and bruises swell with her _living_ flesh. She hears the group of bandits laugh and jeer. Her hands, the undead limbs still in its gauntlet praise be, remain tied behind her. When the bandits finally finish their fun bashing her head in, she is hauled back up and dragged to the back of their camp.

 _I should have let Ohdon come with me._ Leilani struggles to fight back tears. She stares at one of her captors, a man with too much muscle and armor to fit. He, like the others, is a giant blur of overwhelming silver. She winces at the headache that falls. Her captor snarls at her and says something in a language she doesn’t understand. Her consequence for staring at him comes in the scream of pain following his knee in her abdomen.

For a bandit, he has good aim and solid knowledge of anatomy. Her armor has weak points to be exploited; it has places where the ebony chunks do not overlap. Her injury from days prior, a grievous wound caused in a moment of self-mutilation, is terribly sore. She does not fight or stare at the bandits anymore. The camp has eight individuals total, but she can only count six when the stars fade from her vision and silver masses take over. For an undead aspect, she is prone to bursts of exhaustion inconvenient for longer skirmishes. The woman lets her body settle on its side as she listens to the bandits resume their evening activities.

“Bitch thinks she’s tough. Lookit her now!” A silver silhouette that sounds feminine huffs into the cold summer night. The silver sits next to another mass a silver, one larger than it but equally pain-inducing.

The silver mass wraps an arm around the other silver mass's shoulder. Their voice sounds like a smile is hidden in the words, “Ain’t so tough. I liked her scream. Reminds me of you—”

 _Silver._ So much silver. Nothing but the silver sight before her: she sees each mass, each potential target. It strains her eyes to look. It makes the aspect of Namira feel terribly nauseous. Leilani squeezes her eyes shut and begs for the return of a dream, for _something_ to intervene, but nothing comes.

Nothing except Namira’s voice.

_“Let me free. Let me take care of the ones who hurt you.”_

_Not like Dunstad. Not like it._ Leilani clenches her teeth against the otherworldly presence inside her head, pushing and pressing and vying for control in every way possible. She almost fails to muffle a screech of pain at Namira’s voice repeating iterations of her past words to Leilani over-and-over again. It gives her a headache, but she will take it.

Leilani tells herself everything was a dream. She wants to believe it was, that Namira conspired to make her suffer in sleep as the Prince does to her awake. She doesn’t see any other reason it could happen. There is no point in going to the Myriad Realms, to seeing _Sanguine_ , to conversing or fearing or sobbing in front of the god. It cannot change her future or her fate; it _does not_ alter who and what she is. She is Namira, a sliver of the Daedric’s power come to life and imbued with the memories of a dead girl. She is undeath, a wretched abomination of all that is not natural in magic. She will make herself believe it, and she will make _Vilkas_ believe it, because to think otherwise is to admit that she’s failed again. She's hurt people she loves.

 _I’m not Leilani._ The aspect of Namira tells herself. _I’m Namira. I’m Namira. I’m Namira. Leilani’s dead. Vinci is… dead. I’m not… I’m Namira. The aspect of Namira._

When the bandits try to interrogate her that evening, she is given the opportunity to demonstrate her affinity with the rot. And, against all she has struggled for so far, she momentarily gives in to the urge inside her and lets the Ancient Darkness feed.


	42. the king in rags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the king in rags has a meeting with vilkas. vilkas does not like cidhna mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of dead infant / stillbirth in this chapter  
> and nausea 
> 
> sleepy upload at 12am (yay)  
> still happy with this chapter  
> wanted to explore how  
> two characters can help each other  
> grow/change  
> yes  
> enjoy  
> (background music to listen to: 'bridges' by generdyn (ft. fjora))

He finds the cell tucked beyond two turns of the gated corridor, where only humble torches offer light amongst darkness.

“Well, well, well.” The greeting comes from the corner of the room, where an old man in rags sits at a desk and writes. The quill pen in his hand is gripped lazily. The inkwell he dips into is full of dust and rock fragments. The man doesn’t turn to face Vilkas as he adds on, “Look at you—The Nords have turned one of their own into an animal. A wild beast caged up. Tch.”

Madanach is a man with muscle spite of his age. Decades weigh on his shoulders, illustrated by heavy creases in the man’s tanned face. His beard is well-groomed and looks clean despite the grime and sweat of the mine sticking to everything. At the table where he writes, Madanach has a plate of simple crackers and meat cuts stacked to the side. He has a bottle of ale and a wooden mug to pour it in. The rest of the room is adorned in bare accommodations, yet even the flimsy rug and poor cotton cot makes for something more than the stone floor of the mine. Vilkas wonders if the other prisoners even know what Madanach’s cell is like.

 _Perhaps not._ The Harbinger’s eyes narrow. “You’re the King in Rags.”

“And you’re the Harbinger of the Companions! Lookit you, making connections. I’d consider it an honor, but your kinsmen have none to give.” The Forsworn King says; the man continues writing even when Vilkas approaches his chair.

The Companion reminds himself to hold his tongue. Madanach is a smart man. Words that can provoke are not without reason, not without _cause_. It irritates Vilkas that he cannot get a read on the man’s tells. 

“You’re in a prison.” Vilkas remarks. He crosses his arms.

The King in Rags throws his head back and laughs. “So are you, friend! We’re all in the shitter here. So, my fellow beast, tell me why you went through the trouble of getting past Borkul the Beast.”

“It’s no coincidence I’m here,” the Harbinger acknowledges quietly. He looks around the cell. There is a second door, this one made of tight-fitting metal bars that carry the same sheen as his dwarven metal suit. He feels uncomfortable without the protective metal encasing him from the rest of the world. Vilkas tenses as he continues, “You are… You know what Karthspire branch is. Who runs it. She sent me here.”

“—Vrechinn doesn’t _run_ a branch,” the older man chuckles at the thought. He shakes his head, scruff of white facial hair a mess below his chin. “You know nothing about us, Nord. Not even how our branches function. Don’t kid yourself—”

“I’m here on behalf of Karthspire branch. To _help_ _you_. Don’t make me regret my choice.” Vilkas states coldly. He grimaces at the sight of a filled chamber-pot tucked in a far corner. The smell of fecal matter wafts out; he struggles not to show his disgust at it all.

Madanach plucks his bottle of wine from the table. He uncaps it and lifts it to his lips, then hesitates. The man looks over his shoulder at Vilkas. “—Take a seat. You got time.”

“I don’t.” The Harbinger replies without pause.

“You have more than you think, Companion.” The King in Rags intones. “You want freedom, don’t you? Freedom from making absolete choices. Freedom from the façade of control. Man eats man, dog eats dog, the world’s a bloody place. Stop taking it seriously and learn to live a little.”

“—Give me that,” Vilkas grits his teeth but holds out his hand. Madanach grins ear-to-ear and passes him the alcohol. For a moment, he Harbinger considers downing the damn thing. He contemplates the darkness he fell into years ago. He grieved too many people, too much love lost. He almost killed himself at his own hands; the drink tried to pull him under and fill his lungs. Vilkas growls at the memories. He throws the bottle across the cell and turns to Madanach. The Harbinger pulls the man to his feet by force. He shoves the King in Rags backward.

Madanach’s gaze narrows. “So. It’s going to be like that.”

“No games.” Vilkas says. “I’m not the Dragonborn. I won’t be your hero, King in Rags. I’ll free you, and never speak of this again.”

The man leans back. He shrugs off Vilkas’s hand and shakes his head with a soft laugh. Madanach does not show fear. His lips begin to contort into a smile, but a scowl quickly replaces it as Madanach says, “I know you aren’t _dovahkiin_. You are the Harbinger. The Harbinger and now a caged beast. But you are still here—Here to throw your honor away, to join the rest of us in this slum.”

 _Talos guide me, I do not have patience for twisted words and dancing games._ Vilkas inhales deeply. He jabs a finger at the man. “I am breaking you out. Your daughter is in this city; she wants to see you. _Kaie,_ if you forgot the name.”

“No.”

Vilkas stills. He growls and draws his hand away only to ball it up into a fist. _“No?_ You want to stay here? Live as a King in Rags?”

“No. No, you don’t understand. You’re a beast, but not tamed. A wild, feral thing,” Madanach runs a hand through his hair. He moves past Vilkas and sits down at his table. The man picks up his quill pen and dips it into the inkwell. “Until you understand our struggle… Understand _why_ your Empire is a mess. Why we despise your kinsmen! You share the blood your ancestors spilled, Harbinger. Do you even know the story of this city? Of what your Empire did to _Markarth?_ The injustice of the Reach?”

“I’ve heard stories—”

“Stories! Stories! What about the _people_ who lived those stories, Nord?” The King in Rags no longer sounds annoyed or bemused. He is solemn, with a sharp gaze as cold as Skyrim come winter. His teeth clench from an unspoken anguish. A moment later, he hisses at the Harbinger. “Calling them _stories…_ To use those words—To strip them of humanity—Of _experience_ —Of life—No. No, we are done talking. Not until you understand. Not until you understand the cruelty your Empire brought to Markarth. Not until you _understand_ why we are here. Why we fight.”

Vilkas holds his tongue, but it does not stop Madanach from looking over and staring daggers. The Harbinger exhales sharply. “Why must I understand, King in Rags? We are not here to be friends. I am here to help break your chains—"

“And I am here to free you of yours, Harbinger. You and your naïve ideals of honor and respect. We are afforded no such thing here. We must fight. We must bleed. Are you willing to bleed for what you believe in? _Die_ for what you believe in? If not—You do not have honor. You have _ego.”_ Madanach turns to his desk. He opens to a clean page in his journal and begins to write in symbols.

Silence falls. At first, Vilkas does not want to believe it. The forty-year-old man stands and watches as the King in Rags writes in clean, crisp calligraphy with the occasional gravel mixed into the ink. But he does not push the man. He offers only a minute of pause before the Harbinger exits the room and follows the corridor back to the mine’s main shaft. Borkul steps aside and waves him by; he nods at the orc before spotting a watchful Aela and quiet Uraccen at the fire. Aela peers at him with pale, _pale_ eyes, but the eyes of the blood do not offer comfort. Vilkas strides to her. He hesitates. “…Aela.”

“Shield-Brother.” The werewolf hesitates back.

Vilkas bows his head, inhales deeply, and sighs. “I am going to mine.”

So, he does.

He finds out the pickaxe holds no salvation, but it is the only way to spend time. When the Harbinger starts mining, he does not anticipate it lasting longer than a day. He does not intend to waste his life in the abcesses of Cidhna Mine, where only his thoughts and Shield-Sibling keep him company. Despite his belief that Madanach will come around, the King does not. The King in Rags is a man of his word; Madanach refuses to see him again. Vilkas does not press Borkul with requests after the second instance lands him a massive black eye from the man’s knuckles. He goes to mine, and then he mines. He mines silver ore, for it is the only ore available. He mines with a flimsy pickaxe, no skooma, and no shiv, because he holds his morals close even with the pickaxe in hand.

He mines, and he thinks, and he mines. Soon, it is not one day but two. Two days but three. Three days but four. His stomach growls in hunger but he shoves the thought of feasting on _human flesh_ away from where any Daedric Prince could influence him. His nights are restless and without dreams.

On day five, guards come by and dump a bucket of grog that is barely edible at the prisoner’s feet. Vilkas eats because there is nothing else. He withstands the sight of Odvan being lashed by an imposing woman serving as the mine’s warden; Vilkas does not look away when the younger man cusses out the warden for skipping his meal. Odvan receives a broken arm as compensation; the man’s weeping is painful. Vilkas mines.

Maybe ego does motivate him.

He does not like the thought. It makes everything too _subjective,_ and it binds the world to chaos versus the structured dichotomy he understands and perceives. He knows some issues are more complicated than the next, but he still finds ways to categorize them and sort them out into what is generally _good_ and what is generally _not good_. It is one reason he prefers the apolitical nature of the Companions; the overly complex situations tend to rise most in politics.

 _But is anyone apolitical? Are the Companions truly free from the influence of authority? Can I be neutral when Skyrim’s blood pours? When people die from inaction? No. No, I can’t._ It is why he labored to develop his perspective of the world and understanding of others before becoming Harbinger. Even when Rune and Farkas dragged his alcoholic mess back to Whiterun years ago, he did not immediately become Harbinger. He took time to reflect on himself, to cease his liquor, to grieve the death of his child, and to make amends with others before he allowed _himself_ to consider taking the position.

 _But I’ve hurt others. Won’t deny that._ He thinks as he mines, the blow of his pickaxe against an ore vein an ambience for his mind’s spirals. _Maybe there’s been times I hurt others by not doing anything._

He never sat down with Njada and asked her if she was okay. He spent time loathing her form of grieving, going so far to think she might be trying to _erase_ the evidence of the two’s stillborn offspring. He too had been endowed by grief, but he did not reach out to help her. He did not offer a hand or shoulder to lean on. He does not know if she ever told anyone besides the healers who helped with the birth. He does not know if she had anyone to speak to in the first place.

 _She struggles to make friends. She acts like she cares about no one but herself—But that isn’t true. She’s a Shield-Sibling. She bears the right to use that title. She carries a shield to protect others’ backs. She follows our lead and she leads her own. She exists. I should have been there for her. I was wrong to judge her grief. It was not… It isn’t my place. Only the deities may judge her now, if the deities judge at all..._ The Harbinger wipes sweat from his brow. The pile of silver ore is growing at his side, but the pickaxe calls and he rises to swing it again.

He thinks about Rune Dragonborn as the pickaxe falls. The man feels dust and grime sticks to his skin. He smells foul, but it keeps him awake and alert to his thoughts. _I reacted poorly when he joined. I made him clean everyone’s gear for weeks because I lost that fistfight. It wasn’t to teach him the value of being humble. It was… petty. I was petty. How long have I thought of him so viciously? Refusing to view him on equal grounds? Not even calling him my brother-in-law._

He feels shame.

 _I slept with Ria. I should have stopped her in that cave. I dismissed the consequences she could feel. I dismissed how it would hurt her! I dismissed it all! Just to have a moment of release. I threw away our friendship for a blip of gratification. I did that,_ the man growls at himself. He brings the pickaxe down and it crashes off the ore hard enough to nearly fly free. Vilkas draws it back and stares at the weapon in his hand. His eyes darken. _I knew I didn’t care about Ria or Njada in that way. I didn’t miss out thinking ‘bout how the two would be effected. I ignored that. I ignored them. All for my ego!_

It is a furious fire that erupts in the man’s heart. His knuckles clench white and he hisses and snarls as he throws the pickaxe to the side. He seethes where he stands. The sounds of other prisoners mining away rings out in the background. When his eyes scoot across the cavern chamber and fall unto Aela’s pale gaze, the man stares. Vilkas does not break eye contact.

“Once,” She looks tired as she speaks, her own pickaxe tucked into a thin belt around her waist. The werewolf slowly walks from her ore vein to his. She stops several feet away. Aela’s red hair is a matted mess. Her complexion holds worry as she speaks, “Once I saw… outrage in your features. Skjor was alive then. You and Farkas… fought. It involved the Silver Hand.”

Vilkas shuts his eyes. He inhales deeply. “I am not a good man, Shield-Sister.”

“Good is subjective.”

“ _I’m not good,_ ” the man spits at the ground and kicks a chunk of ore away. He grabs his long, tangled hair in both hands and fights the urge to rip it all out from his scalp. Vilkas hisses at himself. He curses the Nine, he curses the Daedra, and he curses himself.

Aela waits until the man is done screaming and yelling at the world. She narrows her gaze. Her arms drop to her side. “Then you are not good, Shield-Brother. But I must ask, for I worry more than I rage: what troubles you?”

“I trouble me, Shield-Sister,” Vilkas walks to his pickaxe and picks it up. His hands shake in anger. He begins to cuss out the world, life, and all of existence under his breath. He finds it is the only catalyst for his own grief, because his heart is full of sorrow and weeping, but he cannot afford to sob in front of the other prisoners. “I have hurt so many. Hurt so many. So many!”

He is screaming in his head.

His ego is his hubris.

“You have.” If Aela pities him, she does not voice it. The woman pauses and peers into his face. “Why do you hurt others, Vilkas? You are the Harbinger. You counsel the Companions! You are the wisest of us, are you not?”

“I—I am not wise, Aela,” The man shakes his head. He cannot stop it. He knows he must, but wiping his eyes no longer keeps the tears away. “I am not wise!”

“Then you are not wise.” The woman takes his pickaxe from him. Aela turns it over in her hands. She frowns and glances back at him. “Why do you hurt others? You do not do it often. You do not do it intentionally.”

“It _doesn’t matter_ if I mean to do it! If I mean to not do it! It still _hurts them_ ,” Vilkas rakes his hands through his hair. He clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head. He can feel the tears roll down his cheeks and leave hot trails behind. “I hurt them, I hurt them… How many times? How many times? _How many?_ All for my ego. My ego. _My_ ego…!”

She does not respond. When the man catches his breath and calms his nerves, he turns and looks for her. She stands by the fire, near Uraccen. Vilkas’s gaze dims. He looks away. _Ego is my hubris. Ego is my downfall. Ego. Ego. Ego. I don’t know sacrifice. Don’t know honor. How many times? How many times did I sacrifice others for myself? My own comfort? Safety? Curiosity?_

He traded Vinci to the Silver Hand when he could have offered himself.

He abandoned Ria and broke his agreement to train her in favor of flouncing around Whiterun Hold for two weeks.

He promised lie after lie of things he could not keep, of protection beyond his means.

He made the death of his stillborn child about himself when Njada had no one to support her.

He spat on Rune’s attempts to build a kinship as a whelp.

He refused to accept the Dragonborn was his brother’s husband, much less equal.

He pushed Namira to speak before she was ready.

He pushed Namira into the mold of Leilani Whitemane despite her attempts to explain to him the truth.

He cannot remember all the things he has done, but he knows he is not honorable. Vilkas doubts he can consider himself _good_ anymore. He was, and is, and may always be, a mess of a man.

“Aela,” the Harbinger greets Aela some time later, when his feet are ready to kill him from standing. The two sit at Uraccen’s humble fire. Vilkas is exhausted; the man’s eyes have run out of tears and his voice is hoarse from screaming and shouting his frustrations. He sits cross-legged next to the werewolf. He feels her gaze shift to him. The man exhales softly. “You have a moment?”

“I don’t know if I do, Shield-Brother.” The werewolf tilts her head to one side. Her gaze narrows on him.

Vilkas breathes in. He soothes his battered nerves. “In this life—I’m not a good man.”

“Maybe not.” Aela acknowledges softly. The woman sighs. “I do not care for that binary of thought, Harbinger. We are Companions. Not… a church.”

“It doesn’t—It isn’t about dichotomy in the world, Aela, it—It is about whether or not my actions hurt others. I have subjected others to things I swore to fight against,” Vilkas stares at the flames of the fire. He can feel the eyes of Uraccen linger on him alongside Aela. “Kodlak—He believed in me. Ysgramor put his soul at ease, the man wanted me to be Harbinger. I keep thinking he saw something in me. It’s a thought that… It helped me stop the drink. It kept me from drinking myself into an early grave.”

Aela does not speak.

“But,” and Vilkas goes on tentatively, because it means exposing a part of himself that is as terrified as he was twenty-six-years-ago, when all the man-once-child knew was cages and darkness. “…Maybe he was wrong.”

“Kodlak—Wrong?” The werewolf parts her lips. She hushes when Vilkas turns to face her.

“I think he was wrong, Aela. I think he wanted to see something in me. But I am not ideals. I am not… honor. I am not meant to be Harbinger,” the Companion turns back to the fire. He looks at the back of his right palm, where an old brand’s scar tissue still lingers. “I thought it was the honorable thing to do, picking up his mantle and furthering his legacy… but… it was not. It was ego. My ego.”

Aela sighs loudly. She shakes her head. “Vilkas, I do not know all the things you’ve done. But you do not have to repeat them. It is not too late to build yourself from the ground up. Maybe,” she hesitates a second. The werewolf’s gaze softens. “Maybe that is what Kodlak saw in you. He knew you were capable of… of…”

“Introspection?” Uraccen butts in on the conversation. The Breton raises both brows at the looks the two Companions give him. He shrugs amicably. “Tryin’ to help.”

“…Thanks.” Vilkas states. He does not know if it is directed at Aela or Uraccen or _both_ , but he means the words.

Day six comes with no food, an aching stomach, and the energy he needs to carry on. The words passed by his Shield-Sister offers support, but the man knows he must have his own resolve. He has given thought to himself, to his past, and to the lives entwined with his, and the Harbinger thinks only one thing: he is not finished with life just yet. The darkness has not taken him. He is a soiled lamb, but he will not be a Daedric Prince’s shepherd. The man finds the thought compels him to break away from his vein of ore after an hour past. He drags his tired body to Borkul the Beast. Something in his eyes must give away to his intent, because Borkul merely grunts and nods following his request to see Madanach. Vilkas utters a word of thanks under breath before he strides down the corridor and follows the mine to Madanach’s cell.

The King in Rags is once more sitting at his table, but there is no food on his plate. Madanach twirls his beard around one finger while the other hand absentmindedly writes on an open but worn book. Vilkas identifies the book as the one he saw days prior. His eyes narrow. “King in Rags.”

“Harbinger! You’ve returned. You understand what we’re dealing with, yet?” The King does not look up from where he writes.

Vilkas inhales deeply. “No. No, I… I was pre-occupied. Other thoughts.”

“Ah. Then this conversation is over—”

“Maybe it’s a monologue.” The Companion looks to the side. He ignores Madanach’s snort and continues. “I had time to think. A lot of time. You were right about that. About a lot of things. My ego’s led to shit. I can admit that. But it reminded me something else, too,” Vilkas walks up to the man’s table and crosses his arms. He glances down at Madanach. “How much a hypocrite you are.”

The King in Rags puts his quill down. He doesn’t look over. “A fool’s monologue.”

“Call me a fool,” the Harbinger grunts. “You showed no honor with Vrechinn.”

The name triggers a visceral reaction in the man. He growls and pushes his chair back. Madanach is not taller than Vilkas, but he is an imposing figure nonetheless. The King in Rags grunts a warning. “You know nothing about her, about _our_ way of life—”

“Kaie does.” The Harbinger cuts in. His gaze darkens. “Maybe honor doesn’t exist in a vacuum. People are complex. But _you_ have no right to speak on it when you lack it yourself.”

“It’s not about _the honor,_ ” Madanach’s hands crackle with a brief surge of magicka. It is the first time Vilkas has seen the man use it. He tentatively steps away when Madanach’s hand rises and jabs at him. “It’s about the _humanity!_ The struggles! _Our_ struggles! Our lives! Loves! Emotions! Remembering we ain’t part of a fairytale in history!”

“I know,” the Harbinger grits his teeth. “I know you’re real! I know your people live! By the Nine, you really believe me and my kinsmen are oblivious to this? To the world spinnin’ on? Like I am not subject to it all?”

“ _You_ can never understand horror unless you _live_ it.” The King in Rags spits at the ground. He seethes at the Companion.

Vilkas feels his chest begin to ache. He inhales a long, deep breath. He wills his nerves to calm, lest he snap and lose sight of himself and why he is there. The man meets Madanach’s gaze. Vilkas pauses before he says, “I have lived _a horror_ , King in Rags. I have lived one. I have lived and I have lost and I,” he speaks as the boy of the cages, of decades past, of a fearful youth deep inside himself seeking safety and comfort that is not there, “I am _terrified_ of the world—Trying to survive, trying to live, trying, always tryin’ to push through! To look out for myself, my brother—And I have been this close to losing everyone I care about.”

“Sucks for you, beast.” Madanach sits back at his table. He picks up his quill pen.

Vilkas growls and slams a hand unto the table. The empty plate shudders from the force of the impact. Ink splashes out of the King’s inkwell and stains the wooden tabletop. The Harbinger doesn’t care, too lost in his own words.

“—Things have been turning around—These past years—Things are _finally_ —Getting— _Better,_ ” the man hisses at Madanach. “Just because _you_ threw out your honor with Vrechinn—Just because _you_ fucked up—Because _you_ feel guilty—Doesn’t mean you ought to force it on the world. _Talos,_ have you no shame? You draggin’ your people down with you? Trying to punish your daughter? Why don’t you want to _escape_ this shitshow? Return to your branches?”

The King in Rags scoffs at the notion. He shakes his head and exhales sharply but says nothing.

“I know Kaie,” Vilkas reiterates the thought. He is calmer now. The man’s eyes dim. “She’s a powerful mage. A strong-willed individual. And she wants to see you.”

“She wants what she wants.”

“You can’t lead a kingdom from a cell.”

“I don’t need help from a _Nord._ ”

“I’m not offering you help—Talos! Mara! _Akatosh!”_ Vilkas cusses loudly. He growls under breath and straightens upright. “I am carrying out the will of Karthspire branch. I know the Hagravens pardoned your affair. The roots want you to _live_. To _lead_. You can’t live as a King in Rags. You can’t be part of your tree from this cell.”

The silence that follows makes the man nervous. He doesn’t like how silence acts. He finds his mind wants to wander too much. He wants to think about things that depress him, about things of the past, or about his own flaws and fuck ups. He has a lot of the latter. The man feels his hands begin to shake. He knows he has too many mistakes to count, but he intends to acknowledge each one in time.

Madanach does not look at him throughout the silence. The King in Rags bows his head and grimaces. He lowers his arms to his side and utters with irritation, “…You’re a _Nord._ You won’t ever understand. Not what I’ve done. Not the beast in this cage.”

“Maybe I can’t. But what about your people? What about Kaie?” Vilkas frowns.

“No. None of them. Not this. Not…” The King in Rags opens his eyes. They contain something new: a glimmer of morose, buried deep within the gray irises. Madanach snarls softly and slams his book shut. “None of them! _None!_ They are good—They are the tree, the branches, the _life_ of us all—And me? Who am I, _Nord?_ I am Madanach! I am the King in Rags! And I have _sold_ the secrets of my people in exchange for _life._ ”

“In exchange for…” Vilkas trails off. The man’s eyes widen. “The Silverbloods?”

“Aye.” The King in Rags reaches for his bottle of wine. He uncaps it. He lifts it up and nods at Vilkas before taking a long swig.

The Harbinger stares at him. “When?”

Madanach exhales sharply when he finishes his bottle. He throws it to the side and shakes his head. “Years upon years ago, Companion. Years. When Markarth was… taken. I had Markarth. Me and my men drove your kinsmen out. We had _won_ , or so I thought,” the old man averts his gaze. “Retribution was swift. I was captured, swiftly tried, and sentenced to death. But my execution—It never came. _Thonar Silver-Blood_ stopped it. You know what he wanted? What was worth the price of my head?”

“Your people.” Vilkas feels nauseous.

“He wanted the Forsworn at his call, that—That I would point my people’s _rage_ at his enemies and spare his allies. And I have. I have,” the King in Rags clenches his teeth. “I have always said—This is _our_ land. We came here first. We _lived_ here for time of a time longer than your kinsmen! Than your kind! But then your kinsmen came. They came and put shackles on us. Forbid us from worshipping _our_ Gods. Some of us refused to bow. We knew the old ways would lead us back to having a kingdom again. That is who we are. Or—Who I thought we should be. The _Forsworn_. The branches. The tree. But in the face of everything I believe in—I couldn’t do it. I turned on them. Sold them out under their backs. Watched the Silver-Bloods butcher the unwilling and enslave the weak.”

“You are a terrible man,” Vilkas utters softly. His hands clench into fists. “A hypocrite for honor.”

“I failed to stop the Empire. I failed to stop the Silver-Bloods. What makes you think I won’t fail to escape Cidhna Mine, Harbinger? What makes you _believe_ this time is different? I deserve my title. I am, truly, the King in Rags. The King _in_ Rags. Perhaps—A King no longer.” Madanach muses aloud.

“You’re a load of shit.” The Companion grabs the king by the arm and hauls him to his feet. Vilkas grits his teeth. He feels _pissed_ now. He wants to hiss, but he refrains from doing so. “Who says it has to stay that way? What ‘bout the Hagravens? Their judgements? Do you value your roots?”

“They tie us to the water.” The king states.

“Then don’t act like you know better than them,” Vilkas jabs a finger at Madanach. He sucks in a deep breath before adding on, “I might be nothin’ more than a _feral beast_ to you—But even this beast knows the Hagravens pass judgement. Not you. _Them._ ”

Madanach inhales slowly. The man finally snorts. He looks the Harbinger head-to-toe. “Y’know, I’m almost beginning to like you. You say your mind.”

“Sometimes.” Vilkas grimaces. He crosses his arms. “We need to leave Cidhna Mine. _You_ need to leave Cidhna Mine. You need to return to the branches.”

“Easier said than done, my fellow beast.” The King in Rags opens his book. He resumes writing.

“Hard things are done every day.”

“They are. So,” Madanach holds up his quill pen. He dawns a wicked grin. “Let’s get it done.”


	43. pretending to be a lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vilkas does not like to think of it as a hunt for the aspect of namira. he prefers to call it a 'search-and-rescue.' it's a matter easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wrote like 5k words of a chapter, realized the quality was not worthy of my amazing readers, trashed it, wrote this, MUCH happier with how things turned out!!! hope you guys enjoy, we're slowly trudging along to the end of this story. should be done with main story before chapter 50, but the epilogue's might take it over to 51-53 chapters. :0 
> 
> enjoy (heart)

By the time they leave Markarth, the streets run with blood of Hold Guards and Forsworn warriors alike. Vilkas is exhausted. He does not feel relief regardless if his “job” is complete. Though the mine no longer holds him, and by the Nine he is grateful to have his equipment back and armor donned, there is only weariness looming in the man’s mind. He has experienced too much in the weeks since departing Whiterun; he wants to go home and see Jorrvaskr, eat a salmon, and help his nephew and niece grow in strength and skill. He wants to be home. He misses Whiterun. He misses his Companions.

When the King in Rags heads off to the branch Druadach Redoubt, Vilkas does not say goodbye. He is a man of few words when unnecessary. He is grateful to have Aela’s company, if only to have another Companion to turn to when the Forsworn members finish their farewells and depart.

“A thank you would’ve been nice.” Aela utters under her breath when Madanach leaves. The werewolf’s neck is free of the silver band cruelly constricting her transformations. Vilkas hates how the skin underneath has sloughed and exposed tender red welts; the prolonged contact, in of itself over time, has been enough to injure Aela.

 _But it’s her choice to be of the blood. She wants that._ The man tries to tell himself. _We make our own choices._

That evening, when summer sunlight fades and _Magnus_ dips beneath the horizon, Vilkas finds himself privy to a small encampment. It looks to be a former hunter’s place, though no recent signs of habitation linger. The man makes himself busy digging out the fire pit and getting fuel while Aela and Ohdon hunt in the nearby forest. Kaie helps repair areas in the hunter’s shack alongside Eola, though why the latter opted to come remains beyond Vilkas. The Harbinger does not have qualms against the younger woman, but he finds himself on edge around her. A single question burns in his mind whenever he spots the woman chatting and making jokes with Kaie, _Why?_

“Don’t stare. Staring’s rude.” Kaie scolds him come supper. She turns a spit of gutted, skinned hares over the flames. Smoke rises but she does not appear to mind.

Vilkas grunts in response. “You’re feeling better.”

“Since when wasn’t I better? Nords are too much,” the woman dismisses his words with a wave of her hand.

But she isn’t _better,_ and Vilkas does not have to be a healer to know that. The Harbinger is an attentive man. Though he had little say during the goodbyes between Karthspire’s and Draudach Redoubt’s branch members, Vilkas recalls the reunion and abrupt departure of father and daughter very well. His heart aches slightly at the thought. Even if Kaie annoys him half the time, he finds she is closer to a friend than an acquaintance at present time. He understands some of her beliefs, he respects her thoughts on things, and he values her abilities even though his nervousness around magic-users lingers.

 _Your father disappoints you._ The Harbinger keeps the thought to himself. He does not want to bring attention to Kaie’s pain. The woman is a headstrong character, with a lively heart and fierce ambition no matter the circumstances. To be confronted with the pain he _knows_ she carries would only build a nightmare. Vilkas’ gaze dims. _I’m sorry. I know what it’s like, having a father who… won’t say goodbye._

When the meal is finished—and it is palatable, albeit not as tasty as it could be—The five individuals sit on bedrolls around the fire pit. The hunter’s shack offers substantial protection from the outdoor elements, a plus for Kaie, Ohdon, and Eola given even summer nights can dip into cold temperatures when one is at such a high elevation. Vilkas keeps his bedroll to the right of Aela’s. He sees the way the Forsworn members respect her, but his concerns are not due to mistreatment. His paranoia over her lack of transformations in imprisonment make him hyper-vigilant. When the group begins to discuss watch shifts for the night, Vilkas grunts and holds up his hand. 

“Insomniac. Anyways,” the Harbinger shuts his eyes. “Would never get sleep with Aela’s snores.”

“Speak for yourself, Shield-Brother.” It is the light, playful banter Vilkas usually enjoys.

 _Not tonight._ The Harbinger is exhausted. Worry and exhaustion compounds to make a mess of a man. Vilkas frowns when he sees Kaie shooting him a look. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” the woman picks rabbit out of her teeth with a legbone. She snorts at Eola retching nearby. Kaie turns to Vilkas and frowns. “I’ll take you to the first tomb _I_ know of. But it’s… They’re sprawled out. Even with our horses—We won’t get there quickly.”

“You said she’s an aspect of a Prince? Daedra smell a certain way. I just need the scent.” Aela says. The red-haired woman sits cross-legged. She is observant; Vilkas spots her frequently shifting her seat to scan the treeline through windows in the hunter’s shack. Sometimes, the werewolf inhales deeply and nods to herself, as if she checks the scents of everyone in the area.

“We should’ve kept something of hers to use. Oblivion.” Kaie runs a hand through her brown locks. She grimaces after, “Oh, what I wouldn’ give for a bath ‘morrow…”

“Vilkas. I would not sleep well regardless. You owe it to yourself to _try_ and rest,” Aela tilts her head to one side. She eyes the Harbinger carefully. “I’ll take first watch. At least get yourself a few hours, Shield-Brother.”

“I may not sleep for any of them,” Vilkas points out.

“Better to try than naught.”

“Fine.” The man grunts.

“Come… morning.” It is the first time Ohdon has spoken, having remained quiet throughout the meal. The Briarheart warrior looks from Kaie to Vilkas. “I will depart for Karthspire.”

“You’re leaving me here?” Kaie’s brows rise. “Really? Was it the thing I said ‘bout the rabbit—”

“No.”

“Or the trick I played on—”

“No, Kaie. You’re… not responsible, not this time,” Ohdon shuts his eyes. The man’s deer-helmet is off and at his side. The warrior inhales slowly. “—I’ll report to Karthspire. Vrechinn must hear the good news. Our King is a King in Rags no more.”

“I guess that’s reason enough to leave me. Even if I’m not pleased with it.” Kaie props her head up with her hand and stares at the undead. After a second, she turns to Eola and declares, “You plannin’ to go, too? Check out the branch? It’s real pretty, will take your breath away!”

The woman frowns. Eola’s eyes linger on Kaie a second before shifting to Vilkas. She takes a hand, runs it through her red hair, and huffs, “No. I want to go with you. This is my second time out of the… the Druadach Redoubt branch,” the pause in recalling the name makes Vilkas snort. Eola’s gaze becomes a glare; she scoffs at him, “You doubt me, Harbinger? Oh, I doubt you remember everything crystal clear. You Nords can barely tell Conjuration from Restoration—"

“I don’t like magic.” Vilkas cuts her off.

“See what I mean? You’ve proven my point. You don’t know heads from tails, left from right, or Conjuration from Restoration.” Eola crosses her arms. She huffs. “Since the acclaimed Harbinger cannot think straight—I’ll take third watch.”

“Fourth,” Kaie points at herself. “You two best not be fightin’ all night. We need sleep!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Vilkas retorts.

Ohdon is given fifth watch by default. The group begins to settle as the evening comes in a rush of dark clouds and faint breezes. The hunter’s shack holds up well thanks to Kaie’s and Eola’s improvements. Yet though Vilkas lays on his bedroll and shuts his eyes, he cannot find it in him to sleep. Too much anxiety and worries over potential nightmares and the future to come grip him. He tosses and turns through the first few hours, finally giving in to the urge to rise. The man’s armor is stashed safely to the side of his pack, just short of his bedroll. He meets Aela’s watchful gaze and squints at her. She offers a wave but the two do not say anything to each other until Aela’s watch has ended.

“It’s quiet out there,” Aela offers a passing comment when Vilkas rises to his feet. The werewolf tilts her head to one side. “Will you be okay on your own, Shield-Brother?”

“I’ll scream if there’s a bear.” The sarcasm drips in the words. Vilkas manages a faint smile. “Really. You four are here—I have nothing to fear from these wild lands.”

Though he anticipates his fellow Companion laying down and going to sleep, she does not. She pauses, stands, and crosses her arms. The night air is full of soft gales and noisy insects; the latter spend their time croaking and chirping to no end.

“I didn’t,” Aela starts, but then she stops. She bites her lip and shakes her head. “No, no, musn’t say that. It isn’t like a huntress to be emotional.”

The Harbinger frowns. His gaze softens. “I won’t judge you for your feelings.”

“But others might. Other Companions.” Aela sighs. She gestures at the door of the shack, and both Companions quietly exit the room. Vilkas stops only to grab his greatsword and its sheathe before he leaves, strapping the sword to his back. He turns to Aela after. She frowns at him and settles near a tree, leaning against the trunk for support. “You’ve changed in six years.”

“I hope I have.” The man grimaces.

“You’re the Harbinger, Vilkas.”

“I am. For now.” The man says.

“I didn’t think I would regret being a Companion,” the words are far from anything Vilkas anticipates. He stills immediately and stares at the red-haired woman as she continues, albeit a bit reluctantly, “At least with Skjor—I didn’t. I wasn’t a mistake—”

“You’re not a mistake, Aela.” Vilkas interjects.

“Let me finish,” Aela holds up a hand. She lowers it to her side and sighs. The woman looks at the dark, cloudy sky. “Look, Vilkas—Six years ago, I had Skjor. That was enough for me to feel at home in Jorrvaskr. He and I—We shared view on the blood. Hircine’s gift. I know that Kodlak never did. That extended to you and… Eventually—To Farkas. Am I wrong, Shield-Brother?”

“No.” Vilkas affirms.

“If I return to Jorrvaskr—If I return to the Circle, to a world where you are Harbinger—I will be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Vilkas! A lion pretending to be a lamb,” Aela tilts her head to the side as she speaks. Her gaze is forlorn. “I’m not a lamb, Vilkas. I need a place to belong. It isn’t with the Companions anymore. Perhaps—It never was. Not under Kodlak, and not under you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Vilkas’s gaze dims. “Aela.”

“Skjor wasn’t butchered then. With him—I had something.” The huntress wipes her eyes. She inhales deeply and shakes her head. “No, no. No more of… That. I am who I am now. I’m not a Companion anymore. I’m sorry, Shiel—Vilkas. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing I say would make ya reconsider.” The Harbinger observes.

Aela nods.

Vilkas exhales slowly. His gaze drops to his feet. “Talos guide us both to new chapters in our lives.”

“He can, and he shall, Vilkas,” the thought is spoken with sincerity. Aela catches his gaze when he looks up. The huntress manages a half-smile. “I would like to see this matter through. Not out of Companionship—Out of the respect I have for you as a person.”

“I ‘ppreciate that.” The Harbinger’s gaze softens. He pauses. “Where will you go after? You may not be a Companion, but, by the Nine—You are welcome to drink at Jorrvaskr anytime.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aela shakes her head and sighs. “I intend to go north, to Solitude. Catch a ship there and travel the lands. I may be Nord, but I am more a Child of Hircine than a Child of Skyrim. My heart aches for a pack to run with, a chase to begin. I need the Hunt.”

“Make sure you find it. Your pack.” Vilkas states. “Those who put up with your snorin’.”

“Speak for yourself,” the huntress’ mood shifts. She grins at him. “You and your brother always were loud sleepers.”

“When we slept,” Vilkas looks to the side. The man pauses. “I hope you come by, sometime. I got a niece and nephew, and there’s a third kid somewhere ‘round Jorrvaskr too, one of the whelp’s. Kids want to learn how to shoot right-side up. You know good and well my aim is shot. Farkas’s, too.”

“If life leads that way, perhaps.” Aela snorts. She pushes herself upright and stretches. The woman’s gaze softens; she walks past him back to the shack, stopping momentarily to whisper to him. “Don’t be up late. I’ll scold you come morning.”

Vilkas can’t help but shake his head. He watches Aela return to her bedroll and settle in. Though his own eyelids are heavy, he cannot find it in him to sleep. There are too many small noises, too many thoughts, and too much tension in the air for him to relax to the point of dozing off. It is a good thing, given it is his turn for watch, but he anticipates the rest of the night going the same. By the time the hour is up and his watch ends, Vilkas wants nothing more than to put his head in a hole and scream for sleep to come. He holds his tongue and keeps his screams restrained. When he goes to wake up Eola, he finds the strange woman is already rising.

Her eyes terrify him.

“May the et’Ada bless your rest, my friend.” Eola sounds unusually chipper. The woman runs a comb through her hair, stretches her arms, yawns, and finally makes to stand. She wears light scale armor over her clothes. In retrospect, Vilkas regrets not spending the time to don his own heavy dwarven plate. Had a dragon attacked, he knows he would be out of luck and vulnerable.

Vilkas meets Eola’s gleaming gaze. He sighs. The man grabs a comb from his pack and begins to sort through his long, tangled hair. “Try not to wake the others.”

“I know.” Eola says. The woman pauses to watch him work the comb through his hair. She finally clears her throat and offers, “How long did that take, Harbinger? For your hair to reach that length.”

“Six years.” Vilkas replies.

The woman frowns. “Impressive.”

For a moment—A heavy pause hangs over both individuals. The other three snore softly where they sleep, though Aela and Kaie surprisingly quiet. Vilkas frowns. He takes off the scabbard of his greatsword and sets it next to his bedroll. The large weapon looks comical when placed nearby, but the man doesn’t care to move it. His eyes trail back to Eola. He finds her staring at him, utterly perplexed by something he is unsure of. Vilkas feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He swallows. “I don’t appreciate the looks.”

“Ah—Right. Staring and all that... You’re the one who dislikes it.” Eola remarks. She stands and slips by Ohdon’s and Kaie’s sleeping forms, then steps over a dozing Aela. She stops next to Vilkas and looks up at him. “I hope you don’t mind—I wanted to apologize for being so… Sassy. Snappy. Quick on the draw. All of this has been overwhelming, I’m so excited and worried yet mentally drained—I could eat a Nord!” The woman holds her sides and chuckles to herself.

Vilkas does not see the humor. But he tries to be a decent man; he offers a nod in gratitude and adds, “Accept your apology. You ought to know—I might not sleep. And if I sleep, it may end in a nightmare. A screaming fit. It’s not you—"

“Insomnia, you mentioned it. But nightmares too? Hm.” Eola rubs her chin. She looks thoughtful.

The Harbinger bites the inside of his cheek. He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Well, do not allow me to delay you, Harbinger. You _should_ try and rest. I’ve got watch, no?” Eola grins cheekily.

“…Wait,” the man pauses just as he begins to sit down. He stands up and stares at her. His gaze narrows; in the hours of the night he almost forgot he had something to ask her. “I need to know. Why are you here?”

“My parents fornicated and nine months later—Out I popped?” Eola raises a brow. The woman’s two eyes rattle Vilkas the longer they linger on him. After a moment of silence, Eola frowns and lowers her arms to her sides. She squints. “I believe I answered your question earlier. This is the second time I’ve been out of Druadach Redoubt branch. I want an adventure before I go home. Besides—You are trying to save the aspect of Namira, no? I am all for assisting an et’Ada, Harbinger. I consider myself almost fanatical in that regard.”

It sounds reasonable enough, or as reasonable as Vilkas expects a follower of the Daedra to be. The man nods stiffly. “A’ight. Was wondering.”

“There is your answer.” Eola crosses her arms. She smiles. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight.”

He doesn’t sleep well, though he sleeps. Vilkas finds his dreams consist of contorted hallways and decadent silver platters, each piled to the ceiling with grotesque chunks of flesh and hunks of raw beef. He recognizes some plates to have human flesh and organs arranged across the dish. He sees cutlery of unnatural shapes and sizes placed ever-so-delicately next to placemats and napkins. The seats are worn and frayed, yet they are pushed in and look ready for use all at the same time. Vilkas dreams of the empty feast hall. Though he never sees anyone else there, his mind always comes back to the table, to the flesh, to what will be consumed in the hall’s Ancient Darkness.

When he awakes, the man has a sheen of cold sweat across his body. Ohdon is already gone in the morning. Vilkas finds Aela missing, but Kaie assures him she has just gone out to hunt. Sure enough, an hour later, the red-haired huntress returns with a large pheasant in her grip. The morning is spent plucking and roasting the bird over a flame. Vilkas offers a prayer to the Nine for blessing the group with the meal.

“We have a tomb north of us, an hour’s walk on horses, or four by foot. Terrain is rough, though, so it may take longer than it’s taken me in the past. Then…” Kaie rattles off a list of locations. Vilkas does not recognize any names. Eola and Aela offer no comment as they munch of the remains of roast pheasant; both woman’s stomachs matter to them more than the task at hand.

When the group finishes breakfast, the camp is packed up and the shack abandoned. In an hour and a half’s time, Vilkas and the others travel northward to a humble tomb built just beyond the mouth of a dark cave. It is the first of the day’s disappointments; though dark and brooding, nothing in the tomb indicates it is anything but a simple, two-chamber burial place. No Draugr rise to defend the coffins and no unholy energies manifest across the grounds. Kaie is quick to direct the group east after, reciting a memory of her youth as the source of knowledge for the cave’s whereabouts.

“Us wild ones, the young ones, anyone from six up to eighteen, we would get in groups and explore the Reach. Why wouldn’t we? It is our land after all!” Kaie remarks at one point, laughing to herself while Eola nods in agreement. The woman quickly adds on, “Now, I know it sounds farfetched, but the truth is one of us—A tiny bloke named Harvh, no more than seven years—Fell through this hole in the ground. Lo and behold, it led straight to this massive cave system. I’m talking at _least_ three times the length of Solitude. We went back, got the grown-ups, and they mapped out this mausoleum. Without meaning to, all of us had managed to not set off any of the traps or stir any Draugr!”

“Beyond farfetched,” Aela grunts.

Kaie shoots her a glare. She continues as her horse trots on. _“Anyways_ , the branch decided to seal up most of the mausoleum. Some members were injured, but no lives lost. Unless you count a Draugr as a life.”

“Definitely not.” Eola hums from her steed’s back.

Vilkas frowns. “They were living once.”

“Undead _now_.” Kaie snorts. “Besides. They worshipped the dragons. Followed the dragon priests. That’s different from the _et’Ada_ , and us of the branches do not care for Alduin after his kind has terrorized us for centuries untold.”

“Dragonkind’s been gone for hundreds of years.” The Harbinger blinks. “Unless—”

“I’m talking about _before_ then. Before they decided to up and fuck off for a millennium.” Kaie throws her hands into the air. “If they just _stayed_ that way life would be a ton easier!”

For the next three hours, Kaie rants and rambles about the irrelevancy of dragonkind. Vilkas is not inclined to disagree with her.

The second tomb turns out to be a wash when Kaie guides her horse to the side and shouts at the others to stop. Vilkas sees why a moment later: the supposed cave entrance is no longer visible, blocked under a content pond with occasional butterflies and intriguing cattails. The third and four tombs are the same; Kaie does not provide any background for them or their significance, she simply rants with increasing vigor whenever she comes upon a caved-in entrance. The lack of finding anything substantial, of locating even the barest clue or scent, begins to wear on the Harbinger. He is an exhausted, worn man. While past talks with Kaie and others have instilled a fraction of hope, it flickers weakly in the pit of his stomach.

He wishes Namira hadn’t left.

He wishes she was Leilani Whitemane.

He wishes, whoever she _is_ , the person could find a way out.

“No more tonight,” the Harbinger calls the group’s search to a stop after they finish exploring and mapping the entirety of a two-floor tomb. It is the seventh tomb looked at that day. _Magnus_ has begun to drift toward the horizon and Vilkas feels terribly hungry.

“I’m sorry we did not find her, Vilkas.” Aela puts a hand on his shoulder. Vilkas doesn’t meet her gaze.

As the group returns to their horses and checks the saddles, Vilkas hears footsteps approach. He frowns and peers over his shoulder to find Eola’s good eye resting on him. The woman does not look as upset as he feels, but Vilkas imagines Eola does not have nearly so much heart put into the search. The man frowns and raises a brow. “What is it?”

“Do you know a place, Eola?” Kaie calls from the side. The brown-haired woman is busy combing dust out of her hair.

Eola’s good eye peers at Vilkas. The gray iris is unusually focused on him.

Vilkas chides himself internally for thinking such things. _It could be how I perceive it, because her other eye has scar tissue over it. Can’t think that way._

“I do, actually. I was… I was hesitant to bring it up. I was worried it would detract from more important locations,” the ginger-haired woman speaks almost bashfully, as if a bit flustered by the whole idea. Eola looks at her feet. “I did not wish to speak out of place!”

“Go ahead.” Kaie snorts. The woman smiles after a moment. “I think right now—My brain is racked for locations. I should have asked Ohdon for his list before he left.”

“I’m listening,” Vilkas affirms when Eola continues to hesitate.

The ginger-haired woman tucks loose strands behind one ear. Her good eye looks to the side. She smiles to herself as she says. “It’s not… a _tomb_. But it’s a cave. That would work, right? Since—You’ve said anywhere she could bury herself in, yes? This is an intricate cave system; it sprawls for almost a mile into a gorge's cliff face. You have to hike to get to the entrance; we won’t be able to take horses.”

“…Sounds dangerous.” Aela says sharply.

“It would be. You aren’t wrong.” Eola rolls her shoulders. She frowns and turns to Vilkas. “Well. What do you think? Is it a possibility? We are doing this on your terms, Harbinger.”

The man pauses. He sees a glint of something flicker in Eola’s good, gray eye. It is brief, but it is there. He decides to trust it. “Is it far?”

“We would be riding into the night. I think… Perhaps… Four hours?” The woman shrugs.

“Not tonight.” Vilkas shakes his head. “Not tonight. You said—The entrance is a hike? The Reach is dangerous come nightfall. But—Morning. Morning.”

“After a good meal,” Aela chimes in. She frowns. “What is the name of this cave, Eola? Is it well-known?”

“No, no, not at all. I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone going there in a long time. But,” Eola pauses. “That would give this aspect of Namira more reason to pick it. If she thought no one else was going there… If she wanted to be alone…” The woman closes her eyes and inhales deeply. She clears her throat and straightens upright.

Vilkas frowns. “You a’ight?”

“Aye,” Eola walks back to her horse. She unties the reins and climbs unto its back. The woman peers down at Vilkas. “Reachcliff. It’s called Reachcliff Cave. Last time I was there, a lot of exciting things happened. I’m looking forward to visiting again.”


	44. vahzen. truth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dragonborn doesn't know what to expect in karthspire. lucky for him, he's got ria to keep him on track and focused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> references events in a daedric desire and daedraborn!!  
> very close to the end now. :D  
> thank you everyone for sticking with us throughout this endeavor!!

“This isn’t how I thought things would go.” Ria’s voice is a small comfort, but her words don’t tame the nerves in the Dragonborn’s stomach.

The two have been in Karthspire for two hours and already the individuals present across the city have made it known, in no necessary terms, that Ria’s and Rune’s presences are not _warranted._ Though Ria has successfully negotiated the duo’s way into accessing the city, both individuals have been stripped of their armor, weapons, and remaining gear. Rune is initially irritated at having to give up the _Wabbajack,_ but after it transports itself to his side in full view of Karthspire’s citizens, the Forsworn members relent in letting him keep it in his possession. Some of them toss the word _et’Ada_ around while conversing in their own language; Rune quickly puts two-and-two together linking _et’Ada_ and the Daedric Princes.

Though meeting the representative of Karthspire branch is meant to have already occurred, a delay related to the person’s visit to the _roots_ means life does not resolve as easily as he wishes. Rune and Ria are instructed to wait in the middle of a modestly sized house on the fifth level of the city. There, they have pillows to sit upon around a long table. Soft furs make up the sole door to the one-roomed structure. Rune feels uneasy sitting still.

“What we’re doing isn’t supposed to be easy. Otherwise… Well, we’d already be done,” the Dragonborn attempts to keep his voice light and optimistic, though the serious nature of the developing situation is enough to make him antsy when left alone too long. “Once this person gets here—We’ll talk to her, explain ourselves, and hopefully meet up with Vilkas and this aspect of Namira before… uh. Before things go terribly bad.”

“You haven’t explained what terribly bad is, Shield-Brother.” Ria frowns at him.

“Use your imagination.” Rune grips the _Wabbajack_ tighter. His knuckles are white, his hands free after certain branch members seized his gauntlets and stashed them away. The Dragonborn hopes they get returned eventually. 

“…Right.” His fellow Companion sighs and rubs the back of her head. She looks out of place in civilian clothes, a stark difference from the light scale armor typically adorning her form.

Rune feels bad. He hopes the woman knows he still appreciates what she’s done for him, agreeing to tag along and watch his back even though he’s venturing off on an _absurd_ mission based entirely off a dream with a _Daedra._ The Dragonborn quickly interjects before Ria can speak again, “—I want to say—Thank you. For coming with me. Being here. Helping me find Karthspire.”

“You are my Shield-Brother, Rune. I hope you would do the same for me. But even if not,” Ria tilts her head to one side. Her knees are drawn up to her chest; the woman wraps her arms around her legs and smiles. “I am here to support you, no?”

“It means so much to me right now.” Rune nods fervently at his words. He bites his tongue then adds, “Things are going to become very messy, Ria. Messier than anyone wants ‘em to be. It’s my job to resolve this mess. I might not be the Harbinger—”

“Thank Talos,” the Imperial woman jokes.

Rune rolls his eyes. He exhales sharply. “— _I might not be the Harbinger,_ but I’m still the Dragonborn. Things like this—It could affect a lot of people. Not just… Not just Vilkas. The aspect of Namira. It could affect more than that.” His gaze drifts to the gnarly staff at his side.

Even when not in use, the _Wabbajack_ reeks of unfathomable power. It is a horrific artifact; it drips of entropy and entices him with the slightest glance. Rune’s self-control is enough to fend off the urge to use it hazardously, but he knows not everyone is as restrained as he is. If it were ever in the wrong hands, Rune has no doubt it could be used for great evil. He bites his lip at the thought. _I’m giving this back to Sheogorath once this bullshit is through. I don’t want it._

Vaguely, the man recalls old memories of a time where he _knows_ he saw it used. Those memories are not easy to access. His head aches whenever he reflects on them too long. His mind races with panic and worry should he try to divulge their details in conversation. It is a mess, but it is _his_ mess, and his mess is one as endlessly inducing of paranoia and anxiety as a bottle of the wrong pills. Yet as the room falls silent in Karthspire, Rune fails to push the memories back into the dark. He finds his thoughts slip away and drift to a place where madness reigns and flickers of another life seep through. Part of him wants to attribute the memories to Sheogorath herself, to exposure of her power, to the _Wabbajack’s_ presence and to all the bullshit bound to arise in the near-future as result of it.

But he knows part of it is his fault.

He can see, in those bitter, painful memories, that he himself is no angel nor saint. He has his own sins and transgressions. He has committed acts of heresy, of treachery, of deceit and lies to the point Rune begins to loathe himself. He sees it in the memories of a world reset, he views it in the twists unfolded at a grand battle in New Sheoth Palace, and he finds the worst of it all in the realization he has always been willing to stab someone in the back to get ahead. 

_I hurt you, Sheogorath. But I was you, once. I was you, and then you were me, and this started._ The man finds time to think when Ria stops talking. Rune frowns and stares at the table. _I stabbed you once. Maybe more than once. Can’t remember. Guess that doesn’t matter if it happened once, huh?_

The more time Rune spends reflecting on the past, the more he grows to hate himself. He wonders, at one point, if it is Sheogorath’s intention from the start: to drag him into a pit of misery, wallowing and moping for all time. Rune bites his lip and shuts his eyes. He wants to say he is better than that—and with Farkas at his side, with his friends and family at his back he is—but the man knows the truth. He has lived the life of a coward. Maybe it was his own fault, or somebody else tricked him, or maybe it was always out of the realm of what he controls, but in the end it all comes back to one thing: he hurt others, and that is his responsibility to bear.

 _In a way… Aren’t you hurting others, too? Sheogorath. Kara. Sloan._ The Dragonborn is ready to curl up into a ball by the time the third hour passes with no sign of Karthspire branch’s representative. Rune clenches his eyes shut. _Are you going down the same path I did? When I was… you. Sheogorath. Prince of Madness. God, I can’t believe I just thought that._

He should not feel sympathy for a Daedra, much less a Daedric Prince. They are gods, not hapless children. Rune knows he is but a gnat compared to one.

The Dragonborn’s brows furrow. _And… They like to mess with mortals. Are you messing with me, Sheogorath? What’s the truth?_

Rune knows he dislikes what he perceives as _vahzen,_ as truth. The word burns in his head in both common tongue and the language of _dov_ everywhere. He scowls at the idea of a Daedra being _honest._ It is so far from everything he understands of the Daedra that the Dragonborn almost snorts aloud.

 _But if it was true… Or… If it is true—Then what?_ The Dragonborn winces. Ria casts him a glance but he does not look at her. Rune struggles to sort through his thoughts. _Wouldn’t you be going down the same path I went down? Because… I hurt you. I hurt a lot of others, didn’t I? You said so, Sheogorath. You said I fucked things up. Real bullshit that was. But you stopped it, and you took the crown, and you became what I was, and I became the… Hero? Dragonborn? Me. But what does it matter if you just wind up going down that same path, Kara? Won’t the same thing happen? You’ll hurt people, you’ll hurt me, and someone will stop you and things repeat and… And… I don’t want that. I don’t want that to happen._

Rune finds his heart aches at the thought. His eye twitches in annoyance at the befuddling realization he cares about the fate of the Daedric Prince of Madness.

 _How do I stop you? Without making the cycle repeat itself. How do I stop you, Kara?_ The man sighs to himself. He is ready to up and leave, walk out of the structure with Ria in tow and hunt down Vilkas and the aspect of Namira himself, when the flap of the building is pulled aside to let a stranger in. Rune freezes and snaps his head to look back at the person as she extends her palms to lay open facing the two Companions.

“My name is Vrechinn. I understand you are Rune Dragonborn, _dovahkiin_ , and you come here to request something of us.” Vrechinn intones calmly.

She is a strange woman, but not in a bad way. Rune finds her ensemble is impressive to stare at. He has an eye for every enchanted item, all the wooden jewelry and woven earrings, and the man nods in acknowledgement at the lady’s intricate robes, all of which are sewn out of carefully treated pelts from a hunt past. She is an influential figure. Rune remembers to introduce himself at the last second, “—Yeah! Yes. I mean. That’s me. I’m… the Dragonborn. Rune Dragonborn. How do you know the _dov_ tongue? Ria didn’t mention—”

“Oh, by the way,” the other Companion interjects. “They know dragon talk.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Rune’s sarcasm drips heavily. He turns to watch Vrechinn as she walks around the table and sits across from Rune and Ria. The Dragonborn pauses, uncertain what to say. 

“You are looking for answers, Rune Dragonborn. Am I correct?”

“You are,” Rune tells Vrechinn. The man fidgets in his seat. He frowns and looks at Ria before facing forward. “You knew my name?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t we? The aspect of Namira and our roots provided the information. But,” Vrechinn runs a hand through her hair. It is long and inexplicably curly, a dark frame to the person’s brown skin. The length reminds him vaguely of Vilkas and Rune cannot help but wonder the care put into maintaining it as Vrechinn goes on. “—We had knowledge of you before, _dovahkiin_. We had… _vahzen._ Truth. The truth of your role in this. Perhaps it is not what we anticipated, but—Here you are. Here you sit. A consumer before us.”

“Consumer?” Ria blinks.

“You do not need to know everything, Companion.” Vrechinn ignores her and looks at Rune. “When we first became aware—Our roots sang a song, _dovahkiin_. The ballad of Kara Dragonborn. The woe that befell her. The tragedy announcing a world drowned by the waters. This tragedy… We, sit here, discussing things under the light of _Magnus_ , as if it is nothing more than a tale told before bed. Yet here we are.”

“But it’s not a fairytale.” Rune interjects.

Vrechinn slowly nods. “It is real and alive, _dovahkiin_. It is happening. You may be _dovahkiin_ , but the song of Kara Dragonborn sings loud and clear to the universe. Her story is in the epitome of climax; a succession of struggles.”

“But _I_ am not here to learn about… About… Kara Dragonborn. I’m here to know about the aspect of—”

“Namira, yes, the soul entwined with our waters. You have your priorities. I have mine. Mine concern the waters which feed our trees and grow our branches,” Vrechinn tilts her head to one side. She speaks clearly, articulately, with a soft and careful tone fitting her sharp gaze. “You owe it to the worlds lost and skies fallen—To care about the fate of the _dovahkiin_ who came before you.”

“I’ve considered that!” Rune huffs. He crosses his arms and squints. “Don’t think I haven’t, alright? I’ve spent more than enough time thinking about _Sheogorath this_ and _Sheogorath that_ and _Why won’t Sheogorath leave me alone?_ To not… To not care. But from what _I_ understand, for me to _care_ about Kara Dragonborn’s grand epic and keepin’ it from turning into an Odysseus-era tragedy, I need to find the aspect of Namira. I need to find her, and I need to use the _Wabbajack_ on her—”

He ignores Ria’s sharp intake of breath on the side. The other Companion stares at him, speechless.

Rune averts his gaze. “Ria—Don’t. Please.”

“…I don’t understand, Rune.”

“It’s complicated, okay? Which is why I’m not here as a member of the _Circle_ , I’m here as the _Dragonborn_. Because—Everything’s a mess,” the Dragonborn shuts his eyes. His heart grows heavy and the familiar ache returns to his chest. He shoves it to the back of his mind. “I don’t know. I… No. No. No! I can do this. I _will_ do this. I’ll find a way to fix things, and that’ll save everyone, and things will all work out.”

_You mean everything to me._ He can hear the voice of the Daedric Prince echo in his mind, the memory of the dream disturbingly clear now as it was then. Rune holds his head in his hands and hisses softly. _I will tear universes apart to ensure the safety of those I care about._

“Shield-Brother?” The voice of his fellow Companion brings Rune out of his thoughts.

The man does not realize he has begun crying until he hears Ria’s gasp and feels the tears on his cheeks. The Dragonborn flushes red in surprise and wipes his face. He clears his throat and sits upright. His eyes look past Ria at Vrechinn, though his words are reserved for the other Companion. “—I’m fine.”

It startles him to see a flicker of concern pass in Vrechinn’s brown eyes. The person frowns and peers at him. “We are not a cruel branch, _dovahkiin._ Should you be need of healers—”

 _“How can you say that?”_ Rune asks softly. His gaze dims. His voice is abrupt and stern, cold, when he snaps, “Ria, leave.”

“…I don’t know if I should,” the woman replies. “How do I know you’ll be okay?”

“They won’t touch a hair on my head.”

“I’m not talking about that, asshole!” Ria’s voice rises in volume. She grits her teeth and stands. The woman brushes off her clothes before kicking Rune lightly in the gut. “Why the fuck are you and Vilkas like this? Even Farkas—You men keep going around, acting like _us pissy women_ don’t understand anything about emotions, feelings, thoughts! Vulnerability! You act like you must be _so_ tough all the time, Dragonborn! As if the sky will fall if you shed a tear in front of me! I’ve seen enough tears and cried enough tears to last a lifetime. _You can trust me._ I’m not,” she catches herself mid-tangent and flushes a light pink. The woman looks away. “I’m not going to judge you for your feelings. Or… Any bull you think is going to matter. Are we not Shield-Siblings, comrades in arms? Are we not meant to have each other’s backs?”

“You can’t have my back, Ria. Not on this.” It hurts to say, and it kills him inside to see the color drain from Ria’s face. The Dragonborn quickly looks away. He grits his teeth. “It’s not… something most people _can_ understand.”

“More so than understanding how in the Nine’s green grass you can fall eighty-feet off a cliff, scream a shout, and regenerate those godawful injuries to fight two days after? More than understanding how you _stop and start time?_ Than understanding you’re a _dragon,_ Rune? A dragon!” Ria shouts the words at the ceiling, fists clenched and teeth baring. “You’re a goddamn dragon!”

“I was _Sheogorath!”_ Rune spits at the ground. He hears Ria fall silent. The Dragonborn cusses loudly.

“You were…” The woman trails off. He doesn’t look at her, even as she repeats, “You were… Sheogorath?”

“He was once of the waters... A fallen hero, forced to kneel and bear the crown. So our roots have foretold, and so it happened, and so it leads us to the ballad of Kara Dragonborn.” Vrechinn’s voice is dry but not without sympathy. When Rune glances at her, he sees the person’s brown eyes are soft. “What did they call you, Rune Dragonborn? In the time before this world began.”

“The Hero of Kvatch.” Rune whispers. “Champion of Cyrodiil.”

“The… The hero of the Oblivion Crisis? The person who stopped the gates?” It surprises Rune to hear Ria knows of the event already. The man does not reply. Ria wrings her wrists. She sits back down and frowns. “I come from Cyrodiil, you know. I—I once read about this. About the Oblivion Crisis. That was two-hundred years ago. How did you—"

“I intervened in the Shivering Isles, on behalf of… On behalf of Jyggalag. Prince of Order.” Rune finds the words leave a foul taste in his mouth. He winces internally. “I ended a curse put upon him by the other Daedra. I _freed_ him. You know what he did to thank me, Ria? You know how he showed his _gratitude?_ ”

Ria does not answer.

“He forced me to become the… new Sheogorath. The Daedric Prince of Madness,” the Dragonborn laughs bitterly. He hisses at himself, at the world, at all of life combined in unison. “I rather have died. Existence under that—Under that crown—Ria, I barely remember the lot of it, but it _horrifies_ me. The entropy embodying Sheogorath’s power—It’s a disaster waiting to happen. A catastrophe unfurling. It breaks down the logic and order present in yourself and it turns you into… It turns you into someone you don’t want to be. It strips you of all the good things and forces you to embrace the bad. And that was _me_ , and I was _awful_.”

“Rune Dragonborn—You reset the worlds for two-hundred years. The true expanse of time lost during your reign as Prince is beyond event the oldest roots’ powers.” Vrechinn lets her hands rest in her lap. She purses her lips but says nothing more, looking from Dragonborn to Companion and back again with a gleam of expectation in her eyes.

“I’m not a good person, Ria. In case you haven’t noticed—I suck at this hero thing. I can’t even find a way to convince the two sides of this civil war to _chill_ for two minutes so I can trap a dragon and… Gah,” the Dragonborn grabs his hair and growls. “I didn’t want you to know. Even—Before I knew. All of this. I didn’t want you to know I’m a _failure—"_

“You aren’t a failure.” Ria cuts him off. The woman moves his side, a hand on his shoulder but touch lighter than air. Rune cannot find the courage to look up at her. Ria goes on regardless, “You’re just… Well, you were a whelp. Not one anymore. You’re just human, Rune. Man or mer—We are equally terrible at not making mistakes.”

“Have your mistakes ever resulted in the devastation of millions lives erased under a universal reset? No. No, I didn’t think so.” Rune whispers.

“Then,” Ria hesitates. It is clear she does not know exactly _what_ to say, but to Rune’s surprise the woman keeps trying regardless. “—Then you should keep trying. To not—Make _that_ happen again. Sure, maybe I don’t fully understand what in Oblivion you two mean by all these talks of resets and universes and… Well. Maybe I can’t fully grasp it. But you—If you’ve made those mistakes before—If you’ve erred in your judgements—Don’t you want to…”

The pause that follows is heavy.

Ria clears her throat. “Shouldn’t you put your energy now into making things better for the world, Rune? Not letting this reset thing happen. Even if you think yourself a failure—That doesn’t mean you have to be that forever. You’re still alive. Take actions, Dragonborn. Find honor.”

“What if there’s no honor left?” Rune’s gaze dims.

“Then you make your own. I know you’re capable of it. It’s why Kodlak wanted you to be part of the Circle, yeah? You’re not just a person with a dragon’s spirit inside you. You’re… Rune. A man capable of change.” The Companion finishes with a nod.

The _Wabbajack_ rests lazily at his side. Rune does not remember if it was there before, or on his lap, or leaning against the door, but he feels its weight against his side now. The Dragonborn looks at the old, twisting staff. He drums fingers down it. The power contained within, the _entropy,_ pulses erratically like an irregular heartbeat. Rune looks up. His eyes are still wet when he says, “Vrechinn. I don’t want _Kara Dragonborn_ to repeat the things I did as Sheogorath. I fucked up. But she’s—She’s just starting on that path. She’s going to become the same thing I became. She’ll hate herself for it, too, but she won’t know how to stop. She needs _help_.”

“She does, Rune Dragonborn.”

“How do I help her? How do I stop Sheogorath from… From becoming _that?_ ”

“Do you believe in stories of sacrifice?” Vrechinn sighs softly. She shuts her eyes. “In putting yourself aside for a greater good?”

“Even when it hurts you,” Rune says. He bites his lip. “Who is the sacrifice?”

The person answers it with a question of her own, “Who do you believe is the sacrifice?”

“I came here to learn of the aspect of Namira. But it seems I only learned about myself.” The Dragonborn stands, _Wabbajack_ clutched tightly in one hand. He offers Ria a hand; she accepts it and he pulls her to her feet. Rune turns to his Shield-Sister. “Thank you for everything. Ria. Vrechinn,” Rune’s eyes flicker to the dark-haired person sitting on a cushion. “I think I know how to fix things, now.”

“What are you going to do?” Ria frowns.

“Find the aspect of Namira, conjure a bunch of Daedric gods, just, you know, everyday Rune things,” the Dragonborn huffs. He wipes his eyes and manages a thin smile at Ria. “I imagine it’ll make a great tale in of itself when it’s all over. A Bard’s song for the ages! I can’t wait to hear it when I’m, like, seventy or something—”

A brisk knock on the walls of the structure alert all three to someone outside. Vrechinn frowns and stares as a Briarheart warrior clad in ebony armor steps through the fur-lined door. The man is tall and wears a helm made from a large deer skull instead of a matching ebony helmet. Beyond the helm, Rune notes the warrior’s eyes carry a distinct, dead look to the dark-grey eyes. Though the Briarheart warrior shifts to stand next to him and Ria, the individual keeps his gaze sharp and facing forward at Vrechinn. There is a subtle air of pride in his posture.

It becomes evident why when the man speaks, “…The King is free.”

Vrechinn’s eyes widen. She stands and clasps her hands over her waist. “When?”  
  
“Three days prior. I rode to Karthspire directly after.”

“The et’Ada bless us with our King once more,” Vrechinn inhales deeply. She nods, pauses, and glances around the warrior. “Where is my daughter, Ohdon?”

“Kaie… has offered to see the Companion’s Harbinger to a number of tombs. He is looking for the aspect of Namira.”

“She’s not with you either?” Vrechinn’s lips contort into a frown.

‘Ohdon’ shakes his head. “No. No—The aspect’s time has come to an end. The magic of the roots cannot temper the influence of Namira further... The rot present—It began resurging days into the trek to Markarth. The aspect believed it wise to split—”

“But you said Madanach is free? The King is a King in Rags no more?” The person drums fingers on her chin. She looks to the side. “Where was the Harbinger in this?”

“…He assisted King Madanach in overthrowing the Hold Guards and escaping Cidhna Mine.”

“But the aspect isn’t… What a strange game to play. A strange man and a strange game. He did not come with you, I presume?”

“He believes it is possible to find the aspect of Namira before the rot overtakes the aspect’s body.” Ohdon pauses and peers at Ria. The Briarheart grunts in acknowledgement. “You return?”

“I had to run to Whiterun and find a Dragonborn.” Ria shrugs amicably.

“I’m a Dragonborn,” Rune comments after. “Rune Dragonborn.”

 _“Dovahkiin.”_ Ohdon bows his head in acknowledgement. “I apologize if… My arrival… Interrupted a meeting between you three.”

“It just concluded.” Vrechinn clears her throat. She looks from Rune to Ria, then turns back to Ohdon.

The Briarheart warrior straightens up. He frowns. “King Madanach voiced… _intentions_ to rebuild the Druadach Redoubt branch. He did not give me or Kaie any messages to deliver.”

“He wouldn’t, no.” Vrechinn shakes her head. She inhales deeply. “Our King is free, and my daughter runs amuck with the Harbinger of the Companions. Truly a world we live in—And I am privileged to witness it. What an honor.”

“’Scuse me,” Rune clears his throat. He maintains a friendly smile. “You’ve been mentioning—The Companions’ Harbinger? Yeah? Any chance you could tell me where to find him? I need to find the aspect of Namira—Yeah, yeah,” the Dragonborn throws up his hands when Ohdon squints at him. “I know, _everyone_ wants to know about this aspect, right? But I need to find her—It’s important to the future of Skyrim and all Tamriel! And other places, probably. I reckon the fastest way is through Vilkas, so…”

“Help him if you can, Ohdon.” Vrechinn’s words are not a command but a carefully constructed plead.

The Briarheart nods. He gestures for Rune and Ria alike to follow him as he leaves Vrechinn’s house and begins the walk across Karthspire’s fifth floor and to the lifts heading up. The man speaks as he goes, indulging every detail, “—I can take you to the… camp we stayed at. The last one, before I departed for Karthspire. There are three other individuals with him: Kaie, the granddaughter of the root Maroisa and daughter of Vrechinn and Madanach. Eola, a member of Druadach Redoubt branch; I believe she requested to join the Harbinger after _business_ in Markarth concluded. And… A woman named Aela. She claimed to be a Companion—”

“Aela’s alive?!” Rune cuts him off and grabs him by the arm. Ohdon tenses. Rune blinks and releases the warrior. “Sorry—Just—”

“She a Companion, then?... She was a prisoner of Cidhna Mine.” The Briarheart warrior keeps walking.

Rune and Ria glance at each other. Ria bites her lip. “…She was… Is? A member of the Companion’s Circle. We thought she died at Gallow’s Rock, with Skjor.”

“I swore she died.” Rune whispers softly. His eyes dim, but his lips turn up in a half-smile. “What a turn of events this is, huh? What a day to be alive. We get to run about Karthspire, Aela’s alive… This is… This could turn out okay. I think things can be okay, Ria.”

His fellow Companion smiles. She shoves him gently to keep walking, and the two follow Ohdon to the lift. As both Companions step on and the lift begins to rise, Ria turns to Rune and says, “Of course things’ll be okay, Rune. After all—You’re the _Dragonborn._ The world believes in you, Shield-Brother, and so do I.”


	45. a god can mourn a mortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aspect of namira is pitted against an ancient darkness for control of the aspect's physical form. it is a battle she knew she would lose, but not without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw's for:  
> -cannibalization  
> -implied child abuse / murder  
> -character death  
> -gross gore
> 
> there's a lot of hallucinations that take place during the first... halfish? part of the chapter.  
> and some references to things that took place in a daedric desire and daedraborn :D  
> enjoy.

She always knew it wouldn’t be possible. She is—she _was_ —a mortal: a small soul cog in the great machine of existence. She knows—she _knew_ —the Prince of Repulsion would outwit her. She did not stand a chance of playing around a _god_ on the imaginary chess board. The Daedric Prince is— _was_ —always using her, provoking her, and luring her into a sense of false hope and security. She is—she _was_ —a fly on the spider’s web, a candle blown out in the Ancient Darkness, and a soul beyond salvation.

It is the fate of Leilani Whitemane: a feast to feed the darkness.

Namira _lets_ her find the feast hall. It is in the depths of a cave where a coven of cultists waits behind bright-red masks and long robes. It is the past—the present—come alive and left to rot: she finds a noxious odor fills her lungs and the cries of the damned ring in her ears. Whether hallucination or real is disproportionate: at times, the aspect of Namira staggers past very-real confinements of malnourished bodies. Sometimes the aspect reaches for them, desperate to save them and _let them live, let them live_ even if she herself is beyond hope. The hands are always just out of reach, the eyes watchful but empty, and her waning strength is not enough to pull cell doors open or pry bars part. There is nothing she can do.

 _But I want to. I want to. I wish…_ Is all the thoughts muster before her mind wanes, buckling under the energy it takes to not only keep the skeletal form moving but to keep her own consciousness whole. There is no longer flesh. It is only through the Daedra’s will her body does not crumple into pieces. Pain upon pain upon pain again, a threshold she has since succumbed to and toppled over, is the epitome of existence between lapses of brief awareness.

She sees the monsters waiting. They are the worst of all beasts, eviler and more scheming than any Daedra could be, for they are those who walk the depths of Nirn under the façade of mortality. They are the beings of evil, creatures of wrath, and those of a wickedness so foul they live and breathe in a form no different than any other human or other race. They are monsters, but they are monsters hidden in plain sight. If she had not already died once, she might fall to their tricks twice and let them spirit her away into the Ancient Darkness.

By the time she _crawls_ into the feast hall, a skeletal sight as ghoulish and cruel as she is a corpse, the aspect finds the feast has already been prepared. The table is set. Plates sit next to napkins, an assortment of fine cutlery lining the dishes. A great number of guests—people, once—sit around the table. At the far end—A grand figure in flowing robes calls for her to step forward. Leilani Whitemane feels her knees— _they were hers, weren’t they? Wasn’t she alive once?—_ buckle and wobble. She doesn’t remember crawling, or walking, or moving at all. It is the memory— _hallucination_ , _it’s only a hallucination_ —that makes her form move. She cannot remember if she is meant to have flesh or skin, bones or bile, and there’s no energy left to look when the world keeps spinning and lights flash around her eyes.

She sees shapes and figures. She cannot perceive what is tangible and what exists as result of the delusion she experiences. There is no longer any difference; she gives up on separation of city and state, mind over matter, and the woman lets the half-alive-maybe cultists take her hand and guide her to the end of the feast hall. Her hands feel nothing at all.

She doesn’t remember if she has fingers. She likes to imagine she does, because fingers have lots of practical uses.

It’s very dark. The darkness feels malevolent. She’s scared. She’s young. She’s a kid again, a person lost in a flashback but trapped in the present. When the people in masks, when the _monsters_ push her toward the altar, she climbs the stairs. She sobs and cries, but there’s no eyes left in her crusty skull and tears don’t roll off her cheeks.

The darkness begins to speak through the pain as she crawls unto the altar. It is a thick, dark stone slab, with intricate designs protruding into a hook that hangs over the chosen lamb.

Leilani Whitemane is a lamb.

 _But Leilani’s dead,_ she remembers. _Vinci’s dead. We’re dead. We didn’t make it out._

She can feel the remains of a teenage girl sprawled across the altar. The skeevers have long-since picked the bones clean, but they fit the aspect’s form perfectly. When she lays down, she can feel each bone brush against her armor and melt through the earth. It punctures the aspect’s body. She feels Namira’s magic reek and spew foulness and repulsion from each crack in the undead aspect’s form. She inhales through a nose absent on her skull-face.

There is nothing.

Leilani Whitemane is a soiled lamb.

“Did I die here?” She screams at her tomb. The feast hall does not answer. The chairs do not move. There are no cultists inside Reachcliff Cave, because the cult has faded into Oblivion due to the Silver Hand’s actions. Most, if not all, of its members are dead. Her sister and father and Krev killed them all. They helped save her.

 _“No one can save you. You know why that is.”_ The Ancient Darkness runs a hand through her hair, stroking it as gently as a mother might a child. But there is no affection; no familiar link exists. The Lady of Decay seeks what is owed to her.

“I, Leilani Whitemane, am a hapless lamb prepared for the butcher.” The aspect of Namira declares.

The Lady of Decay rumbles in approval. Hands become sharp daggers and the knives run down her scalp, dip past her face, and embrace the fold between her chin and neck. She does not remember having flesh in the darkness, yet the cuts begin with the sensation of her screams under the knife’s edge. Namira tears into her at last; the body of her aspect is a gurgling, screaming mess as the will to live fights against a god’s influence. The teenage girl loses the fight. The memory repeats and loops. It is a nightmare that does not stop until Leilani Whitemane is a sobbing mess in a corner of the hall, her arms wrapped around herself despite armor weighing her body down.

 _I won’t let you out._ The woman screams when skeevers run past her in the cave. Her body brushes against a rotting chair and the wood crumples to dust. She backs away, but there is no sense of direction. Namira’s voice comes in a rush of wind and callous laughter.

 _“You want them to live, Leilani.”_ The Prince’s voice urges her back to the altar, to the stone, to the _feed, feed, butcher_ of the cultist’s grand dinner. _“Don’t you want them to live? You want them to get out. You want them to survive. How are they going to live if you don’t take their place?”_

“Leave them _out of this!”_ The woman’s roar is loud enough to wake the dead.

She snaps awake. She is sitting in a chair at the feast hall. Corpses of dead children line the seats. The pulsating, warm hearts on each of the plates looks to be human. She takes one and passes it to the next corpse; the soiled lamb moans in pain and places a heart on their plate. The process repeats. Leilani Whitemane smiles at her brother across the table and each child bows their head in prayer. They recite the dogma of Namira, the Prince of Repulsion, and with it each little lamb plucks a knife and a fork. Leilani begins to carve the heart into thirds.

Leilani Whitemane is dead.

Vincint Whitemane is dead.

Sometimes she goes by the name Vinci. Her brother is the strongest person she knows, and the two easily masquerade as one another. They are almost identical, save for their eyes. Her brother has the biggest, greenest eyes she has seen in anyone. Her eyes are blue. She likes them, because they remind her of the river. Sometimes, she and her brother skip rocks. Sometimes, the two fish small salmon from the stream by their house. Leilani always makes her brother put the fish back because neither of them know how to cook fish. Her brother thinks its funny to see the look on her face when he shoves a fish at her. She doesn’t find it very funny because she is Leilani Whitemane, and Leilani Whitemane is dead.

 _“When are you going to stop fighting her? You know you can’t beat her. She’s stronger than you. You aren’t even alive. What can the dead do against the living?”_ Vinci asks her in a voice as foul as Oblivion’s thunder.

The two children sit on a bridge arching over a trickling stream. The water is full of flies. Leilani Whitemane keeps her hands in her lap and stares at the sky. “I never had a choice. You’re dead, and I’m dying, and soon I’ll die again. But I must try.”

 _“It’s easier to give up. She’ll give you a home in the darkness. She gives everyone a home,”_ the specter flickers in and out of her peripheral.

The river is full of writhing, squelching maggots. Leilani shuts her eyes. “I don’t have a home.”

_“Not yet—"_

“You aren’t alive, Vinci,” Leilani’s hands tense into small fists. She inhales slowly. “You’re not alive. You aren’t here. You’re not even… Vinci. You’re part of the Ancient Darkness. You’re all in my head. What will she show me next? _Namira!”_ The child-now-woman stands. The maggots sing a choir of ghastly growls and engorged frenzies. Leilani’s arms drop to her sides and she stares at the repulsion in her mind. “Stop this—Stop showing me _him!_ He’s dead! I know he’s dead!”

 _“So… are… you…”_ A whisper tickles her cheek.

“I know what I am,” the corpse snaps at the darkness. “I know what I am, Namira. I know what will happen. But I won’t—I _won’t_ —I won’t let you—”

She stills in the motions. Her eyes fall on her chest. Just as she once saw a crossbolt protrude from the torso of Kodlak Whitemane, she too finds a gleaming metal blade spearing her armor. It is made of a fine ebony material, not unlike that which she once mined alongside members of Karthspire branch. It is enchanted, with a sheen of red as beautifully sanguine as the blood filling her throat. When the knife is pulled from her chest, she drops to her knees and collapses unto the ground. Hands grab her body and drag her forcefully past the chairs, up the altar stairs, and heave her unto the altar. Her body crushes a much smaller skeleton underneath; she doesn’t remember if it is hers or another unfortunate lamb’s.

Her thoughts zone out. She sees, vaguely, a disorienting black mass manifest at the edge of the altar. The figure is feminine with silver eyes and a silver smile. Her body freezes. She does not remember when Namira cuts her down, but she loses herself in the shower of silver and darkness that follows it.

The Prince of Repulsion, Lady of Rot and Decay, all that makes up the _god_ the world calls Namira, crosses into Mundus.

In the back of her mind, she knows her story ends there. She knows she cannot halt the Prince, prevent the darkness, or cure the rot. Her soul tears from the Prince’s magic and flickers out like a flame lost to wind. The last thing she expects is a hand to pluck it from the darkness and shelter it in a grasp of faint melodies and various aromatics. The music comes to her ears slowly at first. It is a struggle to understand the notes at all; her spirit is very weak. She doesn’t think, doesn’t feel, and doesn’t react to the voices that filter in and out of existence around her.

Part of her questions if she even exists anymore. But she must, because she can think questions and want answers. That fact alone is her only evidence for her afterlife; the rest is lost, a blank beyond her, perhaps for the best.

She awakens laying on a long bench. It is made of warm marble with tiny flecks of gold crystallized sporadically throughout the stone. The woman is a woman of roughly forty-one years of age. She has bags under her eyes, but when she investigates a mirror—and there are many, _many_ of them around—she finds they do not show. Her hair is black; it is loosely laying on her shoulders and scaling the top of her back. Her lips feel dry, but they do not look chapped. She has wrinkles. She has fair, _fair_ skin; she looks like she has not seen the sun in a hundred lifetimes. The woman’s eyes are a bright, vivid blue. She touches the mirrors, then touches her face to feel the contour of flesh over her body.

“Ah, yes, we’ve met before, haven’t we?” The voice is prim and proper. She jumps and spins on her heels in time to catch sight of a tall Dremora in a dapper suit-and-tie approach her. The Daedra looks familiar, but she can’t remember where from. The Daedra pauses, then smiles and nods at her. “—No, no, do not fret! Naturally, it is perfectly reasonable for one like yourself to forget my name! You have only been here once, yes? Once _before_ —”

“Myriad Realms?” The woman sways.

“Yes, lovely visitor, the Myriad Realms of Revelry—If we’re being _specific,_ ” the butler grabs her before she can topple over. The Dremora rights her, nods, and offers a bright smile. “I am Sullivan, allow me to welcome you here! I anticipate my Lord asking for you shortly—Naturally, he would, if he’s responsible for your appearance on his plane of Oblivion.”

 _Sanguine._ The asshole of a Daedric Prince devoted to worshipping wine half the time, with a fair dose of drugs and sex thrown in on the side. His last—and only—encounter with her was far from pleasant; she remembers how frustrated and angry he was, to the point she winces at the thought of reliving that conversation. Leilani bites her lip and averts her gaze. “Please tell your—Your _Lord_ —No disrespect—But I don’t… I don’t care for him.”

“Naturally speaking, that is _wholly understandable._ But, Miss Leilani, I recommend not straying from a conversation with the master of a plane. He is—”

“An asshole.”

Sullivan flushes a faint pink and sputters a moment. His composure quickly returns and he inhales deeply, his smile shifting from perky to a gleam of mischief. “—Miss Leilani, that is a matter you will have to discuss with Lord Sanguine. I cannot confirm nor deny such accusations, though I advise you refrain from speaking of them around my fellow Daedra. Some entities on this plane are notorious imbibed with Lord Sanguine. Not to leave out the rising population of Sanguinites—”

“I’m not causing trouble.” Leilani keeps her gaze down. Now that she can think—and move, and breathe, and see, and smell, and _exist_ without a degree of darkness—she finds her mind occupied with other thoughts. The woman hesitates before she faces Sullivan and slowly inquires, “…am I dead?”

“You have indeed _died,_ Miss Leilani. A frightening fate befitting the aspect of Namira. I anticipate Lord Sanguine will have more details on this subject—Would you like me to escort you there?” He extends an arm and waits patiently for an answer.

“Would… Would he send you for me? Anyways? Even if I said no?” Leilani asks. She begins to wring her wrists.

Now that she looks, she notices she is wearing the same long, dark brown dress she donned in her last _visit_. The woman frowns and rubs the fabric between two fingers. It is comfortable and light, neither heavy nor itchy in any place, and the garment’s stitching feels sturdy and supportive. She likes the dress. A childish part of her wants to spin in it, but she refrains.

 _He said I’m dead._ Her heart aches in her chest. Her gaze dims. _Does twirling matter? I’m… I did it. I died. I failed. Namira took over. At least—I’m not Namira. I’m not Namira. That means something, doesn’t it?_

“I think, Miss Leilani, you know the answer to that question. But I will leave it up to your digression. Do not push yourself too far; you are a _fresh_ soul straight into Oblivion! You do not want to stress yourself too soon. So much to see, much to do…” Sullivan trails off and beams. Leilani reluctantly takes his arm and follows him throughout the halls of a decadent mansion.

She is barefoot again. The carpet feels nice under her feet. It is soft but not to the point of trying to drag her under. It has texture, but not the kind that feels itchy or leaves her squirming and fidgeting in discomfort. It is a rich mauve color; she finds it easy on the eyes and pleasant to look at.

On the way to—She doesn’t know where at this point—Leilani takes note of the different chambers the duo pass by. She hears wanton moans come from open and closed doors, sees nude figures in a frenzy of thrusts and sweat, and witnesses a group of elves lighting a rolled piece of _something_ on the end, then passing the lit blunt from one to the next. Leilani politely declines it; the smell makes her feel more antsy than she already is. As time goes on, her hyper-vigilance begins to kick off and intensify. She starts keeping track of doors and windows, noting places to hide in or behind, and making a mental map of the twists and turns in the grandiose mansion. Sullivan occasionally comments on the way, citing the loveliness of a golden door handle or the exquisite decadence of checkered marble tiles and glass chandeliers.

Everything is over the top. Everything is _indulgent._ Some of the rooms appear to shift to a person’s desires, which Sullivan demonstrates at one point by stepping inside and making a room transform into a group of people demanding he get them various items or perform different tasks.

“—My greatest desire is to _serve,_ in more way than one!” The butler’s charming smile is not as innocent as he makes it out to be. Sullivan whistles a happy tune the rest of the walk and Leilani makes a point not to ask any other questions.

She wants to breathe a sigh of relief when Sullivan releases her and pulls two doors open, revealing a grand banquet in-progress, but she only stares. There are plates and dishes of food, each looking more delicious than the last, but no actual _patrons._ The only other individual in the room is the god himself, the Lord of Debauchery, of Hedonism, and of Indulgences: Prince Sanguine. His eyes are on her when she enters, though they briefly flicker to Sullivan’s form when he takes a bow and departs. Sanguine returns his sights to her. He doesn’t look as angry as before.

“…So,” the god already has a wine bottle popped open and in his grasp. It is half-empty. Sanguine lifts it to his lips and takes a long drink before sighing in delight and peering at her. “Welcome to my place! It’s alright. Sullivan’s here if you need something. We have… heh, anything your heart desires. Hope it works for you—”

“Why am I here?” Leilani blurts the words out before she can stop herself, but she does not back down from the question. Her blue gaze dims. “Prince—Um—Master Sanguine?”

“Don’t call me that, Oblivion,” the god huffs loudly. He throws his feet up on the table and grunts. “Why wouldn’t you be here? You died, yeah? Souls go to places when they die. You… wound up here.”

“I was part of Namira. Shouldn’t I,” Leilani pauses. She looks to the side. “…Shouldn’t I be with her, then? On her plane of Oblivion? Isn’t that my fate?”

“Was your fate. Let’s get something clear here: I, Lord Sanguine, master of all that is indulging and seven deadly sins, yadda yadda, blah, yadda, am _not_ one for rules. Unless it’s the rule of cool.” The Daedric Prince grins wickedly and drinks his wine.

She has nothing to say to that, but she doesn’t stare at him.

Sanguine must realize it’s intentional, because he pauses and sits up. The Prince pauses. “Oh, uh. You remember the last time, then? Well—There’s a reason for that. I can say sorry, but I doubt you’d believe me. Most are… _smart_ enough not to.”

“I’m dead; it doesn’t matter anyways,” Leilani shuts her eyes tight. She can smell the wine from a mile away, rich and inviting in a way she sorely rejects.

“Hey—Hey. Hey,” The voice is closer now, but not nearly as close to be directly in her ear. When she frowns and snaps her head up, she sees that the god has moved. He stands in the full plate of Daedric armor several yards away. His wine glass is still in his hand. The Prince watches her carefully. “If you want—I can give an explanation. That help at all?”

“I’m still dead.” The woman frowns.

“Fine! Fine, no explanation. Go wander around for eternity; got nothing better to do.” Sanguine is back at his seat at the head of the table in a second, feet up and chugging a bottle of wine to the last drop. When she doesn’t leave, he lowers the empty bottle and sighs. “What?”

Leilani is hesitant to ask any questions. She doesn’t know if the god is naturally like this or if he is having a one-off good day, but her anxieties swirl as she stumbles with syllables and sputters out, “I—I want to know. I do. Yeah.”

“…Know what?”

“What—What happened? Prince… Sanguine.” Leilani says slowly, uncertain what title is accurate to use. She clenches her hands into small fists. She feels like a child again: weak, small, and helpless. It irritates her.

“Well. Uh,” the Lord of Debauchery rubs his chin. He reaches over the armrests of his throne and scoops up a new bottle of wine. The Prince uncorks it and pours himself a large glass as he speaks. “—You died, as you can see. Real shitty of Namira to do you in like that, by the way. Kind of fucked. This’s why I don’t promote ritual murder—You get incidents like this arising and it makes all kinds of legislature back up. You know what legislature is? No?” When she shakes her head, he huffs. “Good.”

The Daedric Prince gestures at her to sit down. Leilani remains standing.

“Be that way, sure,” Sanguine sighs. “I don’t know what _you_ remember. But. You died, yeah. I don’t know if Namira killed you or somebody else—”

“Namira and I were the only ones in that cave,” Leilani twirls a strand of black hair between two fingers, an absentminded action. She frowns. “I don’t think—No. No, no one could have been in that cave.”

“You say that—But you’re also dead.”

“Fair,” she relents at taking a seat. “I guess. Maybe a lot of time passed. Maybe there was someone else there. I couldn’t tell hallucination and reality apart at the end.”

“Well, you’re dead. You accept that, I accept that, moving on! You dying kind of set off shit I’ll have to deal with soon,” Sanguine grimaces and shakes his head. The Prince drinks to his fill from a new bottle. He pauses, then pours her a glass. She does not move to get it; Sanguine scrunches up his nose at her and continues, “Good news: you dying means Namira and you are… split up? Yeah. You two split. Your soul isn’t half-melded with her essence. Consider it a blessing, there’s fates worse than death in that regards.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Prince Sanguine.” Leilani stares at her empty plate. She resists the urge to reach for food spite of her stomach growling.

Sanguine chuckles from his place at the table. He tilts his head back and finishes off her glass of wine, then resumes drinking directly from his bottle. The Daedra snorts. “More good news: you aren’t trapped in Namira’s plane of Oblivion. _Thanks to good ol’ Sanguine here,_ you ain’t subject to a whole list of torments at her hands. But that comes with its own terms and conditions, details in the fine print and all that—Your soul belongs to me now. You’re considered a patron of my realm. What I say goes around here; don’t get any bright ideas of trying to stage a revolt. I can and _will_ put you down.” The last sentence is stated without any hesitation or remorse, colder than the chilliest winter night.

Leilani shivers. She nods. “I’ll behave. You have my word.”

“Good, good! Now, uh… As for the _why…_ Well, buckaroo, there’s a simple answer for that,” Sanguine throws his feet back unto his feast’s table and ignores a platter when it crashes off the edge and unto the ground. The Prince pauses, “I remember how last time went. I wasn’t in a good mood. A real _shitshow,_ yeah?”

 _Shitshow_ is a light way to put it, but Leilani keeps the thought to herself. She nods instead of answering.

“—That’s because—Two reasons! One: you were the aspect of Namira. Now, I know you aren’t _now_ but back _then_ you were. Daedric Princes play nasty games with one another. I’m not here to let Namira come slithering up my plane and trying to squeeze her way in here. I couldn’t show you the same level of courtesy as I might, say, Sullivan. He’s a loyal Dremora Lord, unquestionably devoted to his ambitions and desires. I don’t worry about him stabbing me in the back. I couldn’t say the same for you,” Sanguine says flatly. “You were a stranger, a possible enemy. Nothing personal but I _like_ not having my plane of Oblivion invaded. Second!”

He sits up. In a second, he is but few feet from here, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. The Daedric Prince seeks out her gaze and holds it for several seconds before he continues. It is a brilliantly horrifying sight to witness, indulgent and masquerading as so much more than the god it belongs to. Leilani tears her sights away as soon as she can; she knows if she keeps looking, at one point she may cross a precipice where she can never stop. The power of the Prince’s ruby red gaze is too much for any normal mortal to handle.

“Last time was… a bad day for me. Real shitty. You’ve heard of Sheogorath? Prince of Madness? I bet I mentioned her last time—Seems like she gets up in my business enough to come up in conversation,” Sanguine grimaces. He reaches for a leg of what appears to be turkey and turns it over in his hands. His eyes are hungry for indulgences, and his gluttony shows a moment later when he stops to take hearty bites from the leg. After he swallows, the Daedra looks at Leilani and huffs. “She decided to visit. The ass—She knows I won’t lay a fucking finger on her when she’s… When she’s _her_. She’ll come here, aggravate Oblivion out of me, the whole ten-yards.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the woman is sympathetic, even if she doesn’t fully understand what Sanguine refers to.

The Prince grits his teeth. “Last time—That day—She—Her entropy—It wanted to _remind me_.”

 _Of what?_ The unspoken question must be obvious on her face, as Sanguine cusses under his breath and eats more turkey leg.

"Of all the shit out of my control. Sheogorath," When the leg is only bone, the Prince throws it aside. He grabs another and hisses at the seasoned meat. “—Sheogorath—Was— _Is_ —A person named Kara. And Kara… Kara was manipulated by the flying scarecrow. ”

Leilani stares.

 _“Nocturnal.”_ The Daedric Prince grunts.

She turns to her empty plate and hesitates before the hunger in her gut is too much. Leilani grabs a wicker basket containing rolls. The pastries have deep brown swirls, smell sinfully of cinnamon, and possess a semi-opaque white icing drizzled across the top in erratic lines. When Leilani bites into it, she finds it is sweeter than it looks. The woman hums in delight and begins to eat while Sanguine continues.

“—Nocturnal’s actions meant Kara had to use the Wabbajack on Sheogorath. It turned her into… That. A new Sheogorath. So, she’s Kara, and she’s Sheogorath, and sometimes she’s more Kara than Sheogorath or more Sheogorath than Kara,” the Prince rattles off the information like he’s reciting from a book. He snags a cinnamon roll from the basket closest Leilani and looks at her, “I was reminded how I can't do shit about her fate. But you? You being... _intact_ matters to her in the grand scheme of bullshit."

Leilani lowers her half-finished roll, chewing her current bite slowly. Her gaze dims. She swallows. “Because I was Namira’s aspect?”

“Probably.”

“Then—I’m sorry,” The woman frowns. Stray strands of hair fall over her face; she struggles to move it out of her eyes while her hands are sticky and covered in cinnamon roll and icing. “I’m not the aspect anymore, right? I’m not… I’m not relevant anymore.” She takes another bite, momentarily losing herself in the light, fluffy pastry. By Talos, they are delicious.

“I know,” Sanguine’s words make her pause. He grins wickedly at her stare and gestures for her to continue eating. “Yeah, weren’t expecting a Daedra to give two shits about your life, huh? Me either. Came as a surprise to both of us. But I realized something!” He pushes himself upright, ignoring the stain of icing left by his hands on the table. The Prince stretches and huffs loudly. “—Kara wanted you around for a reason. I know, I know, _you_ don’t have a reason anymore, yadda yadda yadda, real tragic shit, you died, who cares. But Kara had a reason once. Anyone who Kara cares about is a person I gotta look out for, ‘cause right now? She can’t do that shit on her own.”

Aside from the very rude points, Leilani finds herself pondering on his words. It comes as a surprise; the Lord of Debauchery is not nearly the terrible, wicked, _disgusting_ Prince of Hedonism and Indulgences she took him for. She does not anticipate the two ever being friends—nor should they, given he is a _god_ and she but a regular mortal—but she feels a sliver of respect for him start to emerge. She wonders if that is a point of weakness, if the god has made himself vulnerable to devastation and pain due to becoming attached to a mortal. Part of her wants to ask him about it. She sets the remains of her cinnamon roll down and sucks the icing off her fingers first.

“So,” Leilani begins when she feels satisfied with less sticky hands. “—She’s important to you. I remember that. From last time. When you were… yelling.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” It’s half-sincere, half-annoyed, and she can’t tell if the apology is half-arsed or not. She decides to take it like it isn’t, because Sanguine seems like a _god_ who is almost capable of feeling a shred of empathy.

 _On occasion._ Leilani looks at her lap. Her gaze softens. “Did you care about her before she was… Err…”

“Yes. The answer is yes.” He’s not happy answering it, but he still answers. Sanguine stares at the ceiling. He looks surprisingly mortal for a second, as if he is but a person with Dremora heritage opposed to the full-fledged Daedric Prince she knows him for.

“Was it always like that?”

“No. Initially, we just—She was a tease. Taunted _a god._ Three times,” the Prince chuckles at the memory. His smirk is dastardly. “But I got her back, eventually. We hassled each other to the end of Skyrim. Went up the Throat of the World, did Dark Brotherhood bullshit, and then she…” He stiffens. The Daedric Prince curses softly under his breath. “…She was going to die, y’know? I didn’t want her to die. So, I did what _any Daedric Prince_ would do for intriguing champions-to-be! I gave her some good ol' Sanguine-approved power. It kept her alive. I think that’s what set it off; it’s what made me…” Instead of finishing the sentence, he fishes around a chair for a bottle of wine. Sanguine finds one and uncorks it. He takes a swig and exhales softly.

His eyes are very soft. Leilani wonders if a god can mourn a mortal.

“I didn’t realize how bad I was ‘till Kara's thu’um ran off. Turns out, it was an actual dragon. Had to convince it to work with her. But she did, and she was happy. So happy. So was I... _I_ was happy for someone other than myself,” the god snorts and kicks a chair lightly. Leilani does not follow his words, but she pays attention nonetheless as he adds, “Count on Uncle Sanguine to fall for a _mortal._ But she was Dragonborn then, _and_ a consumer, which makes it different. Kind of.”

 _Consumer…?_ Leilani mouths the word. Her eyes narrow. “Do Daedra call Dragonborns… _consumers?_ ”

“It’s a whole other thing,” The Prince dismisses her question. “Relevancy’s irrelevant. I said what I said. Only important thing _you_ should know is Mundus can’t reset if a consumer is ‘round. Long as we have one—We’re gold. Except we don’t, so. Not unless former-Sheogorath counts as one. Eh. That's unclear.” He stops to finish the rest of his bottle.

“Well. Well,” Leilani tries to offer some support. She shouldn’t, and she knows that, but it’s in her nature. She doesn’t want others to feel the same ache of loss she’s come to experience. It’s foolish to care about a Daedra, especially one so _deadly_ as Sanguine, but the woman offers a quiet, “You have my sympathy. If I could help—"

“You can’t.” Sanguine snaps. He straightens upright, groans, and chucks his empty bottle over his shoulder. It crashes unto the table and breaks into a dozen pieces. The Prince returns to his throne. He clears his throat and adds on, “—No one can. I get it, you mortals are _all_ about… compassion… or… something. But _Daedra_ are not mortals. I might fuck mortals, but I ain’t one. Even if I were—It isn’t your problem. Kara wound up as Sheogorath because of me. I wasn’t fast enough to stop her death, to keep the universe from resetting. But let’s not dig into that rabbit hole more. My desires aren’t appropriate for table talk—"

The Prince grimaces as someone begins pounding at the hall’s doors. Leilani turns and catches sight of the door opening and one half-skeletal, half-Dremora figure bursting through. The woman frowns at Sullivan’s disheveled hair, protruding bones, and torn clothing. The butler grimaces and announces loudly, “—My Lord—Lady Namira has breached the barrier of Mundus on the second plane! She is no longer an aspect.”

“Does she have an Oblivion gate?” Sanguine squints. “Sigil Stone?”

“No and no, my Lord. Naturally, I was not able to get an accurate assessment of the situation during the short time I spent conjured for Summoner Kaie, but—”

“Summoner Kaie? Wait, Kaie called you?” Leilani’s heart drops in her chest. The woman knows why Kaie would be involved in trying to combat _Namira._ She does not want to admit it, but her mind is already gone at a thousand thoughts a second as her anxiety begins to spike and worry fills her head. She begins to shake; color drains from her face. “Who—Who else? Sullivan!”

The butler pauses and looks at her. His remaining eyeball turns wildly in its socket. “A—A Nord, Miss Leilani—Two Nords, in fact, one of them a werewolf—”

“Did you get their names?!” She half-screams out the words, eyes wide and fearful for the answer. She’s on her feet in a second and moving to the Dremora.

The butler pauses. “Well—Naturally—”

“Did one of them have long hair? Long, dark hair? Brown eyes? Was one of them named Vilkas? Or—Or mid-length hair? Named Farkas? They’re identical twins, but—But were _either of them there?”_ She grabs the remains of an outer coat on the Dremora.

“…I don’t know, Miss Leilani. It was very quick. I regenerated the minimum flesh required for travel, then returned to Lord Sanguine’s realm to convey—"

She zones out the rest of his words. Even if not Vilkas or Farkas, the fact Kaie is involved is enough to warrant concern. She knows the headstrong woman is loyal to the end. Kaie stuck by her even when she struggled to figure out the extent of her existence as an aspect of Namira, through thick and thin, through highs and lows, and the woman never gave up on her. Leilani cannot give up on her friend. The woman trembles as she turns to Sanguine. She has a pleading look in her eyes, wet and desperate for someone to intervene.

Sanguine grunts. “No.”

“Please,” the woman begs. “Please—Prince Sanguine—She’s important to me! She matters!”

“To _you_.”

“You can’t let her die! Please—Do something—Anything—”

“Unless Kara’s involved, not interested.” The Prince dismisses her request without second thought.

“What if she gets involved?” The woman reaches for any possible talking point she can grasp. Anything, _anything_ that get the Prince to help her. She can’t let Kaie die. She won’t. She refuses. She has lost too many friends and too much life to lose more. Even if she lies to the very god who _saved_ her, even if he damns her to the foulest recesses of Oblivion after, it will all be worth it if Kaie lives. The woman’s eyes well up with tears as she stares the god in the face, Sullivan forgotten and off to the side.

Sanguine’s eyes are dark: a deep, rich sanguine-red. The depths of his gaze reflect a hundred thoughts and then some, all of which are beyond her comprehension. She cannot fathom what a god _thinks._

The Prince is quiet for a long second. He reaches for a new bottle of wine, but the god does not open it. He turns it over in his hands and pauses. “Why would she get involved? Give me a good reason.”

“Because,” the woman sputters. “Because—She wants—This world—Safe! Safe from _Namira!_ She said—She’ll protect those she cares about—At any cost. At any cost! Even if she must drag herself from Oblivion—Right? Even if she has to—”

“She doesn’t need to drag herself from Oblivion. Sheogorath’s powers exceed most Daedra. She'll manifest across Mundus as she pleases, interact directly with the realm there... It was _one_ of the problems in the _other_ Mundus. Back then—that Sheogorath reset time whenever he could, the little shit made a cataclysmic mess...” Sanguine pauses. His eyes widen. “If she can’t stop Namira—she’ll reset the world. Fuck. Fuck me. Clever, Kara.”

He drops the wine bottle and walks over to Leilani. She backs away and avoids direct eye contact; her hands are a mess of shakes and cold sweats, but she wills herself to keep it together a little more. _Just a little more. Just a little longer._

“So, good news, bad news. Good news: I’m gonna go figure out how the fuck we stop Namira from infesting the world with rot while keeping Sheogorath from resetting the universe at the _same_ time. Fun stuff. Bad news,” the Prince snorts. “I have no idea how in Oblivion to do _any_ of that. So, this’ll be luck and flashy entrances. Mostly luck, but hey. Better than nothing. You’re cleaning floors in this place for a month after I get through this shitshow."

“Thank you,” and she means it, because when the Prince disappears in a blaze of violet magic, Leilani can only pray to Prince Sanguine that Kaie and everyone else she cares about _lives_ , even if she doesn’t.


	46. before the butcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hope is a dangerous, sickening thing. but the harbinger is smitten with it and the possibility things will not end in tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello... there should be one chapter left of the main story, then the epilogues! :D  
> uh  
> tw for:  
> -hallucinations  
> -past child murder / abuse  
> -some gross gore

Hope is a dangerous thing.

“I’ve got something,” Aela remarks four hours into the morning venture. The huntress’ eyes are sharp and alert; she slowly breathes through her nostrils and nods avidly. “It smells Daedric. May not be her, but—”

“A start?” Kaie cuts off the woman. She grins wickedly. “We gonna do this, Harbinger? Jump in, save the day? Happy ever after, eh? You ready?”

“Need to get there first. Not taking chances. Daedric doesn’t mean…” Vilkas gawks when Kaie and Eola give each other a look and begin to laugh. Kaie jabs at her horse and urges her to trot into a small thicket. She dismounts and reins her horse to the trees. Eola does the same. Both women eyes Vilkas and Aela impatiently.

_“Hurry up!”_

“So ambitious,” Aela remarks dryly. “Only one knows where we are going—"

 _“I_ appreciate your help.” The Harbinger reiterates the sentiment for the tenth time in the hour.

The massive cliff overshadows a great gorge; it is not sheer cliff face, but the rocks look ready to crumble at a moment’s notice. Eola’s lips turn up in a smug grin as she rattles off things about the local terrain and natural flora of the gorge. Vilkas pays little attention. His mind is a rush of different thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. He stares blankly across the open gorge; he sees small birds fly across the gorge, deer pass on the opposite cliffside, and he hears the roar of a river at the base of the gorge. Looking down, he catches glimpses of small salmon working their way upstream.

A butterfly flies in front of his face; he flinches and stares at the insect before it flutters away.

After he and Aela tie their horses off alongside Eola’s and Kaie’s, the Harbinger and werewolf rejoin the duo at the top of the gorge. Vilkas undoes his hair long enough to pull it back into a more secure ponytail. The man takes precious minutes braided it and pinning it to his head. He grimaces at Aela’s watchful gaze, uttering a soft, “If we must fight—It need not get in my way.”

“Everything gets in the way of your great sword, Vilkas.” The huntress chuckles softly. “The size of it is impressive—”

“All the more reason to be careful.” Vilkas grunts. He inhales deeply and feels a soft gale dance past him. The summer sky is bright and blue; it is clear of all clouds, save tiny, wispy streaks on the edge of the horizon.

When the group begins the trek down, Eola leads the way. Aela continues to sniff out the smells of creatures nearby, occasionally gesturing to part of the gorge and revealing a small rodent or a cliff-dwelling bird in addition to what Vilkas himself saw prior. There is no path along the side of the gorge; it is a precarious hike littered with sandstone and granite ready to wear away into slippery pebbles. Small grasses and weeds poke out of what little soil is visible between chunks of feldspar and shale. Deposits of clay peek out at the gorge’s base, where water has weathered and eroded areas shallow enough for clay deposits to be visible.

The hike proves to be tumultuous. Though Eola claims the cave entrance is just a _little_ further, and spite of Aela confirming the scent growing stronger with each step, it feels like a millennium passes before Eola clams up and makes a break for it at the head of the pack. The woman surges forward in a gleeful stream of laughter, nimbly avoiding loose patches of gravel and weaving around any sharper rock outcroppings. She clambers down a drop-off and disappears, though her voice comes up a second later, “—Found it!”

“’Bout time.” Aela remarks.

When the Harbinger’s weary body reaches the edge of the gorge’s inline, Vilkas spies a rough ten-foot drop unto moss-riddled stones. The ground flattens into a passageway that leads deeper into the gorge’s cliff face. Eola puts one hand on her hip and waves at him. “Hurry up! And bring a light! You got a torch, right? Or Magelight? Candlelight? Either spell would work for this area—”

“Aren’t you the one who knows magic?” Vilkas utters under his breath. He attempts to lower himself down but his hand slips on the rock’s mossy surface and he falls with a loud clang. His body aches and pain shoots through his side. The Harbinger curses under breath and opens his eyes to find Eola peering at him in amusement. Kaie joins the two a second later; the woman smiles amicably while she presses glowing yellow light at his body. Vilkas reluctantly allows it; the restoration magic soothes what is surely going to be bruised and battered for days. He finds he retains a tenderness in the side he landed on when he stands; Vilkas grimaces and looks at Kaie. “That normal? Pain to… You know. Be there.”

“I think it’s wise for me not to go through all my magicka. I mean—We shouldn’t be camping here, so. Best if I only use a lil, eh?” Kaie shrugs. She pats him on the shoulder. Aela helps him up.

The huntress looks at the mossy rocks. She gestures at the bumpy ground, noting with a curt, “Not a lot of wear here. Some, yes, but most of these stones haven’t been touched in a long while. What does that tell you, Harbinger?”

“It isn’t a destination for rich aristocrats.” The Harbinger frowns and touches his sheathed greatsword out of habit. Part of him debates pulling it out now, but he does not see signs of the passage containing old Nordic symbols or architecture. There is little indication it is a tomb. If Eola is to be trusted, it is nothing more than an old cave system.

 _I hate bats,_ the man thinks when a swarm of them fly out past the four and scatter. Vilkas grits his teeth. He sucks in a deep breath and calms while Aela continues, directly behind him. Eola begins to walk into the cave while Kaie hangs back and stops short of Aela.

“People haven’t been here in a long time. There’s animals, water, yes, but no people. But there’s a Daedric entity inside. I can smell the rot coming off this creature,” the werewolf’s pale gaze narrows and stares forward when Vilkas glances back. Aela’s posture is tense. “It isn’t a werewolf, either. It could be a vampire—But there’s no blood. No. Not a vampire.”

“I’m impressed,” Kaie’s smile can be heard in her words. “Ya got good deduction skills there!”

“…Thank you.” Aela replies.

“But,” Kaie continues, and she must have a grin by now if her voice is anything to go off, “Way I see it—You don’t have magic? Besides—”

“Uh-huh.”

“So,” a soft purple light pops up and illuminates the passageway as the remaining three travelers begin their descent. Kaie’s voice is chipper no matter how dark it becomes. “I got here a _Detect Life_ spell on one hand, yeah? And a _Detect Dead_ spell on the other! Give me a second…”

Vilkas opts to slow and let the woman pass. He and Aela walk side-by-side as Kaie’s hands glow with an intense lavender-like violet. The spell’s magic casts ethereal shadows along the sides of the tunnel. It makes Vilkas’s stomach churn and flip-flop with unease; even though he trusts Kaie, he cannot say he is comfortable with all her magic yet. Kaie does not notice his discomfort and starts to hum as she trots along the cave floor. Numerous arachnids crawl on the walls and ceiling as the trio pass by. Aside from the bats, the spiders and the occasional fungi clusters, there is no indication of life present.

Eventually, the corridor opens into a beautiful cave lit by sporadic clusters of glowing fungi. Eola stands at the far end, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. Vilkas frowns as he walks to her. “You ran off.”

“I got excited. But I waited. We are reunited,” The woman dismisses his words.

“Why are we stopped?” Aela frowns. The huntress picks cobwebs from her hair and huffs as she flicks it away. Her pale eyes are eerie in the darkness.

“Well.” Eola hesitates. The woman gestures beyond her, where Kaie’s magicka-empowered lights offer a glimpse at two gaping tunnels. Eola’s smile is wicked and charismatic as she explains, “I forgot—The path splits here. I don’t remember which one is right and which one is… uh. You know. Incorrect. I don’t want us going in circles. So—Maybe Miss Nosy over here can assist us?”

“Miss _what?_ ” Aela sounds bewildered at the woman’s choice of words. Her hands ball into fists. She squints at Eola.

Eola grins back.

The werewolf sighs. She waits until the other three quiet down before she takes a deep breath through her nostrils. Her eye twitches after. “…I can’t tell if either are closer than the other. Reckon both go to the same cavern. Similar length.”

“You still smellin’ ol’ et’Ada in here?” Kaie asks. Aela nods.

The words make Vilkas inhale sharply. The man tries not to focus on how quickly his blood begins to race, but it is difficult to stop. He does not know if the group is about to engage in brutal combat with a Daedric entity, or if they will find Namira at the end of this, but he wants to believe the latter is possible. He feels hopeful. He knows hope is a dangerous, misleading thing, but he leans into it a moment longer. When Eola speaks, Vilkas almost zones out of her words entirely.

“—if we split up.” Eola finishes with a firm nod.

The Harbinger frowns and looks between her and Aela. “…What?”

“Do you not listen?” Kaie huffs. “She said—The tunnels could lead to the same place, but one could be a partial cave-in, or shorten to the point we can’t get through. For time’s sake, she thinks we oughta split up.”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Aela grunts. The huntress crosses her arms and stares at Eola. “You should know which tunnel to take.”

“That was years ago. Two decades, if you want to be specific. Caves don’t stay the _same.”_ The woman says matter-of-factly.

The huntress is not convinced. She opens her mouth to speak but Kaie interjects before she has a chance, “—Hey. _Hey!_ We don’t need to go back and forth over _caves._ Two tunnels, yeah? Four of us. We split into pairs, meet at the other end. If one tunnel doesn’t work, two of us still get through! The other two can double back and catch up.”

“Splitting up a party is asinine logic.” Aela snaps. Her posture stiffens.

Vilkas knows why. He hesitates saying anything at all, because he knows how tender the subject of _Skjor’s death_ remains. The Harbinger looks from Aela to Kaie before he finally makes up his mind. He grimaces. “Eola… makes a point. We don’t know how much time we have left, Aela.”

“Thank you!” Eola huffs.

“—That doesn’t mean it’s a _good_ idea. You always need someone watching your back. If not a Shield-Sibling—Then someone else,” the Harbinger’s gaze narrows. He frowns. “As long as we go in pairs… I’ll comply.”

“I’m not going with her.” Aela’s words have a bite behind the bark. The werewolf turns to Kaie. “You. What is your name again?”

“Kaie, thanks for remembering,” Kaie grins cheekily.

“You—With me,” The werewolf growls. The pale irises unnerve Vilkas when they land on him. Aela walks to him and takes him aside by the arm. Her voice dips into a whisper as she states, “I don’t trust that one.”

“Which one?” Vilkas frowns. He followers her gaze back to Eola. The Harbinger shakes his head, mildly amused. “That much is obvious. She’s not that bad.”

“You don’t trust my word, Shield-Brother? _Fine.”_ Aela briefly falls back into the use of Companion terminology. If she notices, she doesn’t care. The red-haired woman walks back to Kaie and Eola. She hesitates before declaring, “Changed my mind. Eola. You come with me. Kaie, go with the Harbinger. Hircine knows he cannot navigate a tunnel by himself.”

“Eh?” Kaie stares. “That’s a little rude—"

“Kaie,” Vilkas pauses. “Can you recast the light spells before we go?”

“Mm.” The woman spends a minute doing so, meticulously resetting the balls of magicka-powered light so that one follows each individual. Vilkas relaxes a little; witnessing the magic up-close and personal is not unnerving the second time around. He can do this.

There is something wrong with the passage. Its floor is unnaturally smooth and dry. No cave water trickles through, no bugs creep through the shadows, and Vilkas finds it expands in size as it warps in twists and turns. Several times, it opens into a large chamber, only to shrink back down in size and compel the duo further. Kaie begins complaining about low magicka stores after she is forced to reset the lights for the second time. Vilkas notes she looks unusually tired, further evidence of the fact. When Kaie stops ahead of him and throws out an arm, Vilkas nigh-avoids running into her. The man frowns and begins to reach for his great sword. His eyes follow Kaie’s gaze and land on a sheet of pure darkness.

“…We’re almost to the end, I think.” Kaie whispers softly. Her hands tremble. The woman looks over her shoulder at Vilkas, “The roots tell us tales, ya know? Stories of our waters. The et’Ada are not… Not all of them care for their followers. Several do. Those are the ones who we derive much of our magic from. The others… We _respect._ ” It is said in a way that causes goosebumps to rise on the Harbinger’s arms, legs, and neck.

He shivers. “Then Namira—”

“We respect.” Kaie cuts him off. “This is her _embrace._ She is… the Ancient Darkness, Harbinger.”

“Is it safe to go on? You think Eola knows? Aela is not a fool—She’ll stop before she reaches this, but Eola…” Vilkas bites his lip. His hands tense into fists.

“Eola’s smart,” the woman frowns at him. “She—I doubt she’d let the two just walk into a sheet of _darkness_! She… She came from the Druadach Redoubt branch. That branch has got standards—I think.”

_Vilkas…_

The voice from the void calls to him. It beckons. He knows the voice. The Harbinger’s face drops; he stares blankly past Kaie at the darkness. The name falls from his lips, _“Leilani?”_

“Lei—No, what? Vilkas! Stop it,” Kaie grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him roughly.

He grimaces and shakes his head. “I’m good—I’m good.”

“You don’t seem good.”

“You didn’t…?” The Harbinger freezes.

“Okay, we need to leave. That’s no good.” Kaie grabs him by the arm and begins to back away from the sheet of darkness. Vilkas cannot find the will to move. Kaie growls and begins to drag him by force when he doesn’t budge, _“Move!”_

“But—That was her—She’s here—She’s in there!” Viilkas sputters. “We came here for her— _Kaie!”_

A wretched howl and scream rips through the air. Both individuals jump and Vilkas throws himself at the cave wall in fright. He feels his heart thud loudly in his ears and cold sweats fall down his brow. His eyes are big and bewildered, yet full of a very real fear. The man tries to speak, but he has no words, so he stands with his mouth hanging open. Kaie’s expression is similar. The woman swallows and her hands shake. She looks at Vilkas and mouths a name. _Aela?_

“She transformed—She wouldn’t—Unless—”

“We can double back—We can meet her and Eola at the start of—The start of the tunnels! In that cavern—”

“She wouldn’t unless she _had to,_ ” Vilkas interjects. He grabs his great sword and unsheathes the monstrous blade. It hangs at an angle while he tries to think of a reason _not_ to enter the darkness. The man knows what he knows: the truth looms over his head in a thick, grotesque way, like hands clinging to him from the shadows and urging him onward. _But Aela… Aela… She… Why isn’t she saying anything? Even a—A Roar? Snarl? Something? Why aren’t you calling for help, Shield-Sister? Tell me to come! To go! To help!_

The morning was so hopeful and smooth with its rich sunshine and clear skies. He thought the rest of the day could be the same: free of tribulations and successful against the odds stacked against him.

“We need to go forward,” Vilkas says. He grits his teeth. “If we backtrack—”

“We’ll find them! We’ll go through the tunnel’s entrance and—”

“What if that’s too late?!” The Harbinger barks. His gaze dims. “Kaie—We’ve been walking for—For so long—To go back—”

“You want to enter _that?_ ” The woman sputters, pointing at the darkness.

“We don’t have a choice!”

 _“You_ have a choice! I have a choice! We all have choices—And—And I don’t know if I want mine to lead me there, Harbinger!” Kaie grits her teeth. Her brown hair is a tussled mess.

Vilkas feels his shoulders slump. His great sword feels heavy in his hands. He glances down at it, then at Kaie, then back at the darkness. “…You have a choice. I’m making mine,” he steps toward the darkness, against every thought that screams in his head to run. The man’s brown eyes darken. He looks back at Kaie and gives her a firm nod. “I appreciate you sticking your neck out for me. Coming with me here, Kaie. If you’re ever in Whiterun—Drinks on me.”

He takes a step forward. Then—another. The darkness welcomes him as he enters into it, and the light of Kaie’s spell flickers out under the force of a terrible, brutal presence. Vilkas knows he has made a mistake—perhaps he made it long ago, before he even got there—but the man continues to walk. One hand brings his sword while the other feels along the tunnel wall. He does not hear anything but the scrape of his great sword’s blade against the cave floor and the sound of his greaves as he walks deeper into Reachcliff.

He recalls, vaguely, Eola saying it was a mile long. He doubts her words now. The man is unclear whether it was an estimate or if she was intentionally off in the numbers.

Vilkas bites his lip. He feels more and more anxious the longer he spends in the pitch darkness around him. He cannot see a thing. He cannot hear another creature. He feels the tunnel, but it is the only thing connecting him to a spot on Nirn. There is no longer any coldness or aches, goosebumps or shudders, and certainly no growls or howling in the distance. He feels detached from himself and the world; each step seems to take him farther into a realm unlike anything he has ever known. Then, just as abruptly as it began, the darkness suddenly cuts off and the tunnel ends. Vilkas stumbles forward with nothing to grab unto. He falls to his knees; his great sword clatters to the sword but when he reaches for it his hands find nothing.

He snaps his head up and looks around. His braid has come loose and hangs down his back. His armor feels confining versus safe. Vilkas inhales a shaky breath and stills as the darkness relents in its oppression and his eyes adjust to the absence of light. His mind strains to make out what lays in front of him; it hurts to think and his head thuds with the pounding of a heartbeat, but he looks. He stares. He sees.

A long hall is laid out before him. Rotting, crumbling chairs and stone pews flank the great feast hall and its table. There are no plates set, no cutlery put aside, but there might as well be, because it invokes the same amount of dread and nausea in the Harbinger’s stomach. His hands shake and he struggles to keep his breathing stable as he rises to his feet.

He feels small.

He has never been to a feast.

 _“It’s a first for most visitors,”_ the voice creeps in from the side. _“But it’s important to join us for an evening, Harbinger. To experience what you were denied.”_

“Hello? Namira? Kaie? _Aela!”_ Vilkas calls to the darkness. His eyes sweep the dark hall. He freezes in place and recoils backward when the dark silhouette in front of him tilts her head to one side.

A gray iris gleams in the light. Vilkas scrambles backward and trips. He hits the ground hard. It provokes a laugh from the other in the chamber. His hands meekly stretch and pat along the smooth stone floor, desperate for something to fight with. He finds an old blade and hefts it up—only for the sword’s guard and blade to break apart in his gauntlets. The Harbinger sputters and stares.

 _“You should relax. You’re here as my guest. I’ve waited a long time for someone like you,”_ Eola’s voice seeps through the air, foul and dark and repulsive. Her silhouette walks toward him, turning something over in her hands. _“You’re here for my master, Harbinger. But she’s here for you. It works out beautifully.”_

“What did you do to Aela?” Vilkas barks. His eyes shift to the side and he feels his way along the outermost wall. The chamber is oval; he walks briskly around the perimeter and winds up opposite the woman.

 _“Made her sleep. Can’t let one of Hircine’s own keep me from tonight’s feast. Do you know what we’re having?”_ The woman’s voice is like nails on chalkboard to his ears.

“I _don’t care!”_ Vilkas spits. The darkness is lesser in the feast hall, yet it seems to amplify every little _nuisance_ usually tucked away in the man’s mind. His nerves are on edge, adrenaline risks flooding his veins, and the panic he usually staves off through sheer willpower begins to bubble and simmer beneath the surface. Vilkas cusses loudly and staggers back to his feet. He only makes it a few steps before he walks directly into a massive stone slab plopped directly at the end of the hall. The man scowls and steps back. His eyes fall upon the great stone altar.

There is a body resting on it. A corpse, specifically. Vilkas feels color drain from his face as his eyes struggle to take in the sight of ebony mail and the skull protruding from the neck guard. He can hear soft whispers float up, in a voice as ragged as it is beautiful.

_Vilkas…_

“…Lei…” The man finds control of his body fades. His vision blurs.

_My soiled lamb… You have returned to me…_

It was never Leilani Whitemane, but the boy of the cages cannot react to it. He finds himself stuck in the past. He is small and weak once more; he is as helpless as the grime under his feet. He feels one of the monsters in masks stride up to his side and put a hand on him. The difference in height does not register as off or anomalous to the boy. He flinches and looks at the monster.

“You’re going to a feast tonight,” the monster tells him. “You have to get ready.”

“Going… to…” The words fall out of his mouth like a gurgle of drool. His eyelids grow heavy. “…feast…?”

“Yes. You’re going to a feast. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” The monster takes his hand and puts it on the altar. Vilkas stares at her through exhausted eyes. The monster laughs and shakes her head. “You must be tired. Why don’t you lay down and rest while we get the meal ready?”

“I need to… To… Lay down?” Vilkas mumbles.

“Lay down and rest, little lamb.” The monster tells him gently. It is music to his ears. He begins to climb unto the altar, mind lost in the haze of darkness and the Daedric magic channeling through it. As he pushes the corpse of a soiled lamb to the side, the child feels the rest of his energy leave him. He lays down. He needs to rest.

The monster retrieves a butcher’s knife from a sleek black scabbard. The child stares blankly at the monster while she moves his hair from his neck. He does not flinch when she lifts the Daedric dagger up. The metal has a sharp sting as it begins to cut into his flesh. The darkness rises from the edges of the altar and wraps great hands around him. He wants to scream and cry, but he can’t. His tears do not belong to him anymore.

A sphere of violet magic _explodes_ into sight. The child stares as a red-and-black figure in a strange uniform emerges from the sphere. He remembers, not as child but as man, the Daedra species known as _Dremora_ possessing similar physical characteristics to the thing that stands before the feast. The figure has black skin, yet in the darkness ribbon-like strands of red glow faintly along his head, neck, and the visible portions of his hands. The monster at his side cusses aloud and reels back from the altar, gripping her arm and leaving the Daedric dagger half-embedded in his neck.

The child-sometimes-man is confused. He can’t move. He feels the darkness prowling around him, begging for the feast to continue and the lamb to be ended, but the knife is only part-way. He feels warmth trickle out of his neck around the cold metal.

A hand grabs the dagger’s hilt and chucks the knife away. Vilkas sputters and gasps in the rush of his own blood; control of his body returns to him as Kaie pulls him off the table and drags him several feet from the altar. She says something to him, but his mind is still gone and the world spins; the woman growls. The tears in her eyes show when bright yellow light fills her hand; she shoves the restoration magic into his wound and mends the flesh while another violet sphere of magic explodes into existence. The creature that comes out the second one is a great being of ice: a frost atronach from a plane of Oblivion.

Vilkas is suddenly forced to consciousness and the cries of battle. He can smell blood in the air; it is his own. The sticky, congealed liquid clings to his skin as it continues dripping under his armor. He gasps for air and stares up at Kaie. Her brown eyes disappear once her magic fades, but she snaps at him, “C’mon!”

“What—”

“You’re not dying today, Harbinger!” The woman shouts at him. She pulls him out of the way as a chunk of ice shatters into a thousand pieces right where the two previously sat. Kaie throws an arm around his shoulder to help keep him on his feet. She grits her teeth. “I called a—A Dremora—I don’t know how long it’ll last—”

“That thing? That was you?”

“Someone has to watch you fucking back!” Kaie shouts. She screams in surprise when Eola’s frost atronach thunders toward her. Vilkas braces for the impact but a clang of metal stops the frozen creature in its tracks.

“Summoner Kaie—This is not a situation I am well-versed in—” The Dremora wears the uniform of a butler, with a clean suit and necktie over crisp slacks and polished shoes. The greatsword in his hands is made of Oblivion-black metal, all accompanied by a sheen of red enchantments.

 _Daedric._ One of the strongest alloys available. Vilkas shudders where he stands. He looks at Kaie. “—Why did you come?”

“I remembered something— _Oblivion!”_ Kaie hisses and drops the man long enough to throw a ward up against an incoming fireball. The fireball bursts and flames shower the area, setting moth-holed fabrics alight and offering a glimpse of the threat at hand.

Eola’s eyes gleam with murderous intent. Even in the darkness—both her eyes possess an eerie quality. Her mask is broken; Vilkas sees every inch of evil rot through her. The woman licks her lips at his stare and calls, “My Lady will grind your bones for my bread, Harbinger! The soiled lamb will feed her feast!”

The frost atronach rumbles and smashes Kaie’s Dremora aside. The butler crashes into the chamber wall and groans in pain but soon begins to stand. Eola’s atronach charges it and buries the creature in a pile of icy rubble.

“You’re a Nord! And Nords are—” Kaie cuts off her words when Eola pulls a fireball from thin air and hurls it at Vilkas. 

The man stares at the magical flame. For a second, he is lost in the past again: a nightmare of brands, of monsters in masks, and of the flickering fire being the only light for the children in the darkness, all filling his head. He doesn’t register someone is in front of him, screaming in agony, until he hears Eola’s snort. The woman on the other side of the hall has a cruel smile.

Kaie’s body burns. Vilkas sputters and falls backward, scooting away as fast as he can until his back hits the chamber wall. His eyes grow big and fearful.

The magical flames go out after a moment. Kaie weeps in pain. Her enchanted garments are responsible for keeping her alive—but only _just_ ; the burns claim most of her body. Her playful brown locks have been burnt off along with her brows. She crumples into the ground. Nearby, the frost atronach approaches. Vilkas snaps his head to the side and looks for any kind of weapon. He sees the gleam of his greatsword and makes a dive for it, relying on instinct and luck to grab it, turn, and launch himself back at Kaie and the atronach. The Harbinger brings it down in time to block the frost atronach’s clobber. Kaie sobs at his feet while Vilkas hisses and shoves the atronach backward. It regains its balance and holds up a hand. Icy spikes manifest and prepare to launch when a Daedric blade slices the creature in two and shatters it into a thousand pieces.

The butler hefts up the weapon and turns to face Eola. Vilkas exhales in relief and resists dropping to one knee. He looks down at Kaie. Her brown eyes are clenched shut; her cries are endless and horrifying. It enrages him.

Vilkas holds up his great sword and advances on Eola’s snarling form while the woman backs away. His movements push her toward the head of the table, to the altar, while the butler Dremora climbs unto the table and uses it to leap at the cultist of Namira. She attempts to cast a fireball and duck, but the Dremora has enough experience to curve his strike and slam it into Eola’s side. Her cry of pain rings once before she falls silent. The woman slumps to the ground when the butler pulls his sword out. Vilkas stares at him in unspoken gratitude; man and Dremora run back to Kaie’s side.

“Summoner Kaie, I am awaiting your command.” The Dremora speaks with surprising politeness, not a hint at the bloodlust seeping through. Kaie doesn’t say anything.

“Kaie—Kaie—” The Harbinger doesn’t know what to do. He bites his lips and tries to get the woman to turn over, so he can look at the extent of the damage, but she screams in agony when he tries. The Dremora gives him a sharp look and eventually growls to make him stop. Vilkas bites his lip. _What do I do? What can I do?_

The Forsworn member lurches a shaking hand and grabs unto his gauntlet. Vilkas freezes and stares at her burnt face. Kaie’s breath is ragged and hoarse but she belts out the syllable, “—Na—”

“Namira? But—What about _you?”_ Vilkas curses under his breath.

She begins to weep again. The woman’s hands glow a soft yellow. Even in what must be a relentless pain, she can cast the magic necessary to begin to heal. Vilkas stares at her for a long moment. His heart holds nothing but respect for her strength.

The man reluctantly rises to his feet. He keeps his great sword in one hand; Vilkas turns and looks at the feast table. The corpse on the altar has not moved since then, but someone else has. Vilkas freezes at the sight of Eola crawling unto the altar. The woman has her Daedric dagger in her remaining hand. The sheen of Oblivion-red enchantments glows in the darkness.

“I offer to you myself, my Lady, my Prince,” Eola whispers. “As your soiled lamb—A return to—The darkness.”

The woman raises her blade in the air and brings it down unto the corpse. It plunges through the armor with ease, cutting through metal as if it were no more than butter. The blade twitches and howls with unnatural energy as Eola collapses over the corpse and bleeds out. The dagger’s red enchantments begin to glow; they intensify until a red energy seeps over Namira’s corpse and bathes it in Oblivion’s rot, thrusting new life into the depths of the aspect’s form and ripping apart the barrier keeping an Ancient presence back. The Daedric dagger disintegrates into ash and seeps into the broken ebony mail. Skin crawls over the bones while layers of fat and muscle revert and reform at the Prince’s call. The corpse shudders with life.

“Oh, no, no, no—No—Summoner—Summoner Kaie—This is very bad—” The Dremora begins to sputter at Kaie’s side, but Vilkas heeds him no attention.

His gaze is locked on the sight before him, on the altar’s body and the monstrosity unfolding. The dead body sits up. There is no definite skin tone, no glow of humanity or light, and nothing but the faint pinpricks of a silver sight gazing beyond undeath. The Lady of Decay rises to her feet while Vilkas steps back and shakes. She holds her gauntlet-covered hands to her face and turns them over. Her gaze sweeps the armor on her body, the room around her, and comes to rest on the injured forms of Kaie and Vilkas.

“Vilkas,” Kaie whispers. Her voice is hoarse and dry, but it steals his attention. He looks at her in a growing panic. The weight of the world comes crashing down on the Harbinger’s shoulders as he hears a pulse of magic shake the entire cave. Vilkas catches sight of a void of color, an absence of light, swallowing Kaie’s Dremora whole and dispelling the Daedra instantly.

The Harbinger drops to his knees in realization.

The aspect of Namira is no more.

The Prince of Rot and Repulsion walks Nirn.

He can’t stop a _god._

When Namira addresses him, his body locks up in fear. Adrenaline courses through his veins but the man cannot think through words or move a muscle. He stares as a primal terror rips through his spine and crawls up his throat.

 _“You fought valiantly. But you have failed, soiled lamb.”_ The Prince sighs. _"You have failed…_ ”

“Don’t—” The Harbinger chokes out. _“Please—”_

 _“You are my soiled lamb, Vilkas. You will never escape my shepherds. You… Your brother… You belong to the Ancient Darkness. You are owed to me. I will show you,”_ Namira lifts a hand and holds it out. Her voice is saccharine sweet. _“What it means to be a lamb before the butcher.”_


	47. let entropy take me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in reachcliff cave, rune dragonborn races to stop the prince of rot and repulsion from manifesting and rotting all of mundus.

“Walk three steps behind me,” the Dragonborn orders as his hands glow with magicka. His gaze is dark and forlorn: a perfect reflection of the emotions flooding his brain. The man holds a torch in one hand and an ancient staff in the other as he advances in the long, snaking corridor.

He can hear Ria’s whisper three feet away, “—What happens when we find them?”

“Get the injured out. I’ll deal with… unpleasantries.” Rune says.

He is not a man of puns and wit, nor charming remarks or sassy quips. He embodies every bit the legendary hero _Kara Dragonborn_ once asked him to be. He is brave, in the middle of a pitch-black cave creeping with strange arachnids and fungi. He is resolute, in pursuit of a foe far more dangerous than anything he’s dealt with before. He is not Rune, but he does not remember his name from _Earth_ anymore, and thus Rune he has become. The Dragonborn’s dark curly hair occasionally bumps into the edge of spiderwebs. The man doesn’t dare brush out the webbing as he creeps forward. His steps are soft but not muffled beyond a simple _Muffle_ spell. He finds himself irritated at the lack of enchantments on his glass armor, but there is no time.

He can hear them: the call of battle, the arrival of rot, and a flurry of magical effects and spells being slung. The man feels sweat drip down his brow. He does not know if he will find anyone alive besides a horrifying _god_. He hopes, and he prays, and he questions, but most importantly—He walks.

A sheet of unwavering darkness emerges at the end of one corridor. Rune gives his fellow Companion a look; the man hands his torch to her—it would be useless, anyways—before he turns and steps through the veil. He inhales out of instinct, and he is glad he did: in the darkness, the silver eyes of Namira are a beacon for the Daedric Prince’s location. Nearby, he spies a tiny glow of yellow hinting at _someone_ else. He isn’t too late. Someone is still alive. Rune shudders as Namira’s voice lurches through the air, crawling and tearing at his eardrums.

 _“…what it means to be a lamb before the butcher.”_ The Daedric Prince says.

 _“Fus ro dah!”_ The Dragonborn shouts the words, throwing every ounce of his will into the thu’um’s manifestation. The force of it throws the Prince’s ebony-clad form across the hall; she smacks against the wall and he dashes to the yellow light. Rune stares at an unfamiliar face: a woman with deep burns marring her face, her head, and dipping below the intricately-woven garments on her body. The Dragonborn cannot help but blurt out, “—You’re a Forsworn?”

“Rune?” A voice whispers. A hand lands on his arm and the Dragonborn flinches, but he relaxes when it dawns on him who is talking.

“We need to go,” the Dragonborn doesn’t greet his brother-in-law, merely issues the command. He yells over his shoulder, “ _We need to go!”_

If Ria can hear—she isn’t saying anything.

“How…? When?” Vilkas is not himself. He sounds detached and disoriented. Rune helps his brother-in-law to his feet and frowns at the man’s silhouette.

 _What the hell happened to you?_ The Dragonborn wants to ask, but he’s too busy assisting the Forsworn woman to her feet. She’s a flurry of cries, tears, and restoration magic, the latter of her own doing. The woman mumbles a soft word of thanks after. Rune frowns and casts a _Magelight_ overhead, only to gawk at the light dissipating instantly.

“It won’t,” the Forsworn member whispers. “It won’t—Won’t work. Not _here.”_

“Fuck, okay, c’mon, we’re getting out of here,” the Dragonborn frowns. He and the other two freeze in place as laughter belts from the darkness. A silhouette absent of light, save silver irises that gleam and glow in disgust, rises from the point of impact of his thu’um. Rune can feel Vilkas begin to shake. It unnerves him seeing the warrior so frightened, even if its due to the presence of a _god_.

 _“The Dragonborn arrives… I have longed to meet you face-to-face, Rune. Should I address you as your title now, or your former occupation as Sheogorath?”_ The Lady of Rot cackles into the dank air of the chamber.

Rune swallows. He shoves Vilkas behind him and at the Forsworn woman, “Take her—Take her—Go—Get out of here—I’ll cover you—”

“Aela,” Vilkas mumbles the name. The Harbinger chokes out. “She’s—”

“Aela?” Rune sputters. He shakes his head. “No—No time for talking! Go, go! _Go!_ ”

“I’m not leaving her!” Vilkas curses after. He is a mess of a man.

Rune grips the _Wabbajack_ in both hands. He had hoped to avoid witnesses to the precarious affairs soon to unravel, but it looks like he has no choice. The Dragonborn’s eyes are dark and grim. He grits his teeth, “Then take her with you! Get out of here!”

“Come, come now, I’ve got you, Kaie,” Ria’s voice is a whisper behind the two. A moment later, the voice snaps. “We don’t have time to explain! You heard the Dragonborn!”

 _“Rune. Why do you interfere? Was the life of a hero not enough for you?”_ Namira’s words force Rune to shift his attention elsewhere. The Dragonborn steps forward, Daedric staff in hand. He growls at the Prince, but it only makes the _god_ snicker. _“Consumers are… never easily satiated. You still carry that hunger… The need… You wish to consume our world. Am I wrong, Rune?”_

“We have vastly different interpretations of what it means to _consume_ shit, Daedra,” the man barks at her. His body is tense. He can feel his _thu’um_ relax; his throat is ready to belt Words of Power once more. Rune activates a _fury_ spell in one hand and lobs it forward. He sees Namira swat it away as if nothing more than a fly, but it is not the _effects_ of the spell he is after. The Dragonborn stares her down as the red glow of his spell spreads across the ebony armor Namira dons, illuminating her location in the darkness. He snorts. “—Not so easy to hide when the lights on.”

“Vilkas! C’mon,” Ria’s voice comes from behind him, at a tunnel entrance. The woman hisses at the Harbinger. “We’re leaving!”

“Aela’s in—The other—” Vilkas repeats the words over and over. “Not dead! She’s—”

 _I need to call her here._ Rune grits his teeth. He stands as a buffer between the other mortals and Namira, a spindly wall with a staff. When Namira lifts a hand, Rune’s mind is made up: he slams the _Wabbajack_ into the ground in front of him and belts out the name, _“Sheogorath!”_

The entire chamber rumbles and shakes. Dust falls from the ceiling. The long table of the feast hall splits down the middle and splinters into long slabs. The altar of Namira remains untouched, but the chairs and plates break apart and fall to the ground. Rune shields his eyes as an impressionable range of hues shoots from the _Wabbajack_ and bathes the ground in light. The energy cycles through different color families, but it reverts to _white_ by the time the Prince of Madness takes on a tangible form and rises.

The Daedric Prince is not clad in armor and yields no weapons; she has the pompous, lush gown of many gowns on her figure. Buttons haphazardly dot the skirts and hems. The bodice is an ugly mauve color, but _ugly_ appears to be the style Sheogorath yearns for. The Daedra’s hair is meticulously arranged around rollers in a conventionally unattractive way. Her hand has mismatched gloves. Her make-up is a split down the middle of two separate styles, one fit for a party and the other a splay of humble mattes. She holds a hand to her mouth as Namira’s form steps back. The latter’s silver eyes land on Sheogorath’s glowing white ones and Sheogorath chortles, “A pleasure, Namira.”

_“You dare show your face, Kara Dragonborn? You who ripped justice from so many?”_

“I’m not the one going on and on about _justice_ , now am I? And neither! Are! You!” Sheogorath ducks under a mass of darkness as it lashes out from Namira’s outstretched palm. The Prince of Madness dances a solo jig past the shadows that unfurl toward her, every bit light and nimble as an elf despite Dremora characteristics present. Rune struggles to pull the _Wabbajack_ free from the ground while Sheogorath continues to draw Namira’s attention to her.

“You know,” the Prince of Madness has a smooth, lovely voice. “Darling—I say you and I have some _upsets_ to work out! Clearly, I’ve done something to offend you—”

 _“You split the world!”_ Namira roars. 

Sheogorath pauses a moment. “Yes, I did, most certainly, oh, all I am and all I was took those actions, mhmm, but, honestly, what does it concern _you?_ You forget—You’re no hero, Namira! You aren’t a consumer. You’re an et’Ada, and you lust for power like the rest of us... Whatever your intention be, my darling, they were never _good_.”

“Rune!” Ria shouts from the tunnel edge. “Rune, come on!”

“Little busy,” the Dragonborn belts out in response. _C’mon, ugly staff! I didn’t use that much strength!_

 _“We wanted to see him burn! Flayed alive! A death worthy of his sins!”_ Namira’s voice shakes the cave. She whips forward and her gauntlets crash into Sheogorath’s body, the latter cussing out the Lady of Decay a thousand ways and then some. Namira’s right hand burns with a force absent of all light, a void, as she pulls it back and slams it down. Sheogorath throws her head to the side in time for the void to sear away her hair and hair curlers. The Prince of Madness shoves Namira off and backs away.

“You and all the others,” Sheogorath snaps. “Wanted his _power_. Vultures to a corpse! You have no sense of justice! No Daedra does!”

Though Rune rips the staff free from the floor, he falls backward and yelps. Sheogorath pauses long enough for Namira to lift a hand and fling a bolt of darkness forward; it explodes and carves a neat chunk out of the rock a foot away. Rune yowls in surprise and sputters, _“F—Feim zii gron!”_

The sputter of his Become Ethereal shout comes just in time; his body loses tangible form and a cold aura washes over his spine as he feels blasts of Namira’s darkness impale where he once sat. He scrambles to his feet and carries the Wabbajack away, making a beeline for Ria and the others in favor of leaving Namira to Sheogorath’s whims. Namira howls and throws a wall of void up to occupy Sheogorath; the Lady of Rot comes rushing after Rune in a flurry of sinful gales and bellows of undeath. Her gauntlets wrap around the Dragonborn’s waist and she bears down on him, the crushing weight of an Ancient Darkness throwing him from his feet. Rune curses and attempts to kick her off; he can feel the Daedric magic attempting to surge through his shout’s magic, perhaps the only thing capable of doing so. His heel gets crushed in the darkness and the Dragonborn looses a scream of pain. He rears back and shoves his elbow into Namira’s neck just as his shout dissipates and his body takes tangible form.

The rot begins to seep into his skin, perforating armor and seeking out flesh to feast on. Namira snarls as a blaze of chromatic light rains on her from behind; Sheogorath reaches for the Prince and tears her off the Dragonborn with her bare hands. In the background, Rune hears the cries of his fellow Companion, but he ignores them and staggers to his feet. His crushed foot has no feeling. He almost topples when trying to step forward; the Dragonborn grabs unto the _Wabbajack_ for balance and it digs back into the cave floor. Rune shouts behind him, “ _Go!_ Go, don’t wait for me!”

“We’re not leaving you,” Ria snaps. She shoves the Forsworn woman at Vilkas and takes a step, but Rune howls at her to stop.

“Don’t make me shout the ceiling down! Zeus, I’m not a _whelp_ , Ria—I got this,” the man growls in pain. He shrieks as tendrils of darkness fall on him; on the side, Namira stands over Sheogorath’s rotten corpse with a seething, empty stare. Rune sucks in a breath and shouts against the strain of his diaphragm, _“Yol!”_

The word of _fire_ comes alive; a blaze crashes against the darkness and the magic of thu’um fares against Daedra. The Dragonborn holds up a hand to shield his face from the licks of flames and their light. _Fuck, fuck. Fuck! I’m gonna have to bring this ceiling down, aren’t I?_

 _“You are a god no longer, Rune Dragonborn._ ” Namira’s body has signs of damage, but it begins to regenerate.

Rune swallows his nerves. He knows Sheogorath is not dead, but it takes time for a Daedra to reform in the Void. Time and energy. The man feints his fear, “—You aren’t—Not wrong. Maybe we should talk about this?”

 _“I am through talking._ ” The Prince lurches forward, but not at him. Rune throws out his arm but the Ancient Darkness ducks and slides under and past him. Namira brings her hand up and an orb of space, devoid of life and of warmth, sings sacrilegious choirs as it spins and churns in her palm. The Lady of Rot runs past Rune and bolts for the two tunnel entrances, where Rune spots Ria, Vilkas, and the Forsworn woman.

The Dragonborn tries to shout but he chokes on his own saliva. His throat is too strained from _Yol_ and what should be easy draconic syllables comes out in sputters of fear.

A glow of purple emerges on the Forsworn woman’s hand. As Namira forces the void forces, a sphere of purple conjuration magic thunders and manifests in front of the two Companions and the summoner. Rune’s eyes widen and he stares as the purple magicka suddenly dips into a deep and rich sanguine red hue. The Dragonborn’s blood freezes and he struggles not to fall over unto the _Wabbajack_ as viscous red vines shoot out from the sphere of magicka and ensnare Namira but a foot from the trio. The Lady of Rot howls in fury and rage as she thrashes against the tendrils. The vines begin to tighten and constrict her, with thorns digging into the Prince’s armor and flesh as if nothing more than butter. As the Lady of Rot begins to blast each vine with darkness, a new vine grows and rises to replace the fallen.

From the sphere comes a snort. A black-and-red figure, clad in full Daedric plate, emerges and tilts his head to one side. He has a sharp jawline, ruby red eyes, and a smirk that shows an ego Rune recognizes. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, the Dragonborn remembers past encounters with the _god_ in front of him. He swallows and stares at Lord Sanguine, the Prince of Debauchery.

“Well.” Sanguine grins ear-to-ear as he watches Namira hiss. Though she blasts through and decays each of the Daedric plants, more rise from apparent nothingness to ensnare her further.

 _“How did a mortal call a Prince?”_ Namira seethes.

“Uh, no, she didn’t. Not that I’d mind if she _did_ ,” the Lord of Debauchery looks over his shoulder at the injured Forsworn woman. He snorts as he turns to Namira. “But y’see, I got a request from the newest member of my realms. Something about… begging to save a woman named Kaie. And the Nords with her. Funny how it all works out.”

For a long moment, the Lady of Decay says nothing. Her silver eyes narrow and her entire body tenses. As her gaze sweeps the individuals present in the feast hall and adjacent corridors, she comes to rest at Rune’s form. He glares at her, fear dissipated.

 _“So… The Lord of Debauchery makes his case. I should have anticipated outward interference,”_ the Daedric Prince snarls at Sanguine. _“You waited for Leilani’s soul to flicker out. You stole her away. My soiled lamb—”_

“Is yours no more. Tragic, truly,” Sanguine picks at his ear. He has an amused if not bored look on his face.

“What did you do with her?” The words come from Rune’s brother-in-law. The man frowns and gawks at Vilkas stumbling forward and hefting his great sword up, aimed precisely at Sanguine. The latter raises both brows in curiosity. Vilkas grits his teeth. “Where is she now?”

“The Myriad Realms of Revelry, tiny Nord.” Sanguine pushes the blade away. He grunts. “You’re talking ‘bout Leilani Whitemane, yeah? She’s dead. I got her soul.”

The words make Vilkas go still. The man stares at the Prince in disbelief. His voice comes out soft, “That’s not… She’s not. She’s not Leilani Whitemane. I—I’ve accepted that—”

“Oh boy,” Sanguine stretches. He turns to Rune and growls, “I’m not wasting time explaining _now_. As you can see—” the Prince pops a bottle of wine from behind Rune’s head; the latter gawks and stares at him while Sanguine uncorks the alto wine and continues, “Namira here’s got bad blood with, what? I think his name is Vilkas?”

“Or Harbinger,” Rune feels very meek pitted against the Daedric god. “Harbinger of the Companions. He’s my—”

“Brother-in-law, don’t get ahead of yourself.” The Lord of Debauchery snorts and throws his head back to take a long and luxurious swig of wine. He pauses when his gaze falls on the staff in Rune’s grip. The Dragonborn swallows nervously when Sanguine gestures at it. “So. Sheogorath decided to step in after all. That mean…?”

The Daedric Prince finds his own answer to the question. He turns and identifies the corpse of the Prince of Madness sprawled across the ground near the head of the feast table. Sanguine walks past Rune and Namira’s entangled form to the body. Rune looks at Vilkas. The Harbinger’s eyes are blank, a mix of disbelief and shock, perhaps denial. Rune does not have any words to offer the man beyond a faint _sorry_ and _hold on_ , he wanders forward and follows Sanguine in time to catch the latter’s soft words.

“…always trying to do things on your own… Tch. Typical Kara.” The Prince’s gaze dims. He drinks from his bottle and grunts without looking back. “—You, Dragonborn. _Dovahkiin_. Former Sheogorath. Other Sheogorath’s gonna be back in a moment. Tell me your plan to resolve this, ‘cause I can’t let you walk away without a plan.”

“Erm,” Rune frowns and glances at the trio behind him. He sees Ria tending to the Forsworn woman’s burns while she talks to Vilkas. Rune faces forward. He staggers forward, weight against the Wabbajack, and stops at Sanguine’s side. “I had an idea of what to do. Got a nice lecture at Karthspire ‘bout it. But… But now that you got Namira covered—”

“She’ll break free soon. I’m not like her or Sheogorath; I got neither the strength nor rituals to manifest fully here,” the Prince is curt and matter-of-factly, far from what Rune remembers of him in the _Oblivion_ game. Sanguine snorts. “You got nothing, then?”

“I got this. It’s not nothing.” Rune glances at the _Wabbajack._

“Ah, yes. Sheogorath’s personal artifact. Like that’s an actual weapon!” Sanguine’s voice drips of sarcasm and pseudo-joy. He growls, “You got shit, kiddo. You do realize what’s gonna happen when my strength wanes? When Rotface there breaks free?”

“I’ll use this on her. I have to,” the Dragonborn looks to the side. “And then… Then… I mean. I got an idea for then.”

“’Kay, let me put this another way, ‘cause clearly we aren’t communicating well!” Sanguine grits his teeth. He exhales sharply.

Rune frowns. “Just because I’m not—”

“If Rotface gets outta here—Nothing’s stopping her from rotting all of Mundus into Oblivion. You get me?” Sanguine’s words are tense and frustrated. “Alduin, sure. Maybe the flying lizard can stop her. But by then—It won’t matter. Too much death. An overload of souls. This ain’t interfering just with Mundus, _dovahkiin_. This’ll seep into Oblivion—"

 _“I know that!”_ Rune grips the _Wabbajack tightly._ He is pissed now, god be damned. The man points the Wabbajack at Sanguine’s aspect; the latter brushes it away as if it were a toothpick. Rune hisses anyway, “Do the lot of you in Oblivion fuck around all day?! No shit, I _know_ what might happen if a Daedric Prince breaches Mundus! I _know_ , I stopped one! I was there! I ended the Oblivion Crisis, Jesus Christ! Is that why you’re so pissy? Angry _I’m_ the one here instead of precious Kara?”

He howls in pain when the Daedra lifts the wine bottle and smashes it on his head. It isn’t enough to cause death. Though he knows his draconic soul will regenerate fast enough to prevent major hemorrhaging, it hurts beyond belief. Rune drops the Wabbajack and cusses Sanguine to _Hades_ and back. He clutches his head and glares up at the Prince through his messy bangs. “You fuck!”

“Rune! That’s a _Daedric Prince!_ ” Ria chides him across the cavern.

Rune hisses. “Why should I care?! He’s a pissy dickwad! Full of himself! Only reason he’s here is because he knows it has something to do with _Kara Dragonborn!_ Sanguine doesn’t give a rats ass if anything happens to Nirn, to you, to _us!_ Am I wrong?” The last sentence is spoken with venom on his tongue. The Dragonborn is too furious to show fear.

Sanguine kneels next to the corpse of Sheogorath’s aspect. He prods it lightly with the _Wabbajack._ The Prince shuts his eyes and hisses. “She’s like this because of _you._ ”

“And I’m trying to help her! I’m fucking trying here, _god_ ,” Rune rips the Wabbajack out of the Prince’s grasp. Sanguine makes no attempt to snatch it back; Rune turns it over in his hands, gaze dim. “I’m sorry Jyggalag took a piss on us all, Sanguine. I am. Maybe you don’t believe me—But I’m not like _your kind._ I’m not immune to _empathy._ Remorse. I know what I did has fucked things real good for so many! I know! But guess what? Your sorry ass moping and pouting hasn’t done _jack_ to fix things. I don’t have time to put up with your attitude when I’m _trying_ to find a solution that works.”

“You can’t.” His tone is definite, barely restrained rage as vicious and bloody as his eyes. Sanguine’s stare is murderous.

“Maybe _you_ believe that! Maybe that’s how _Oblivion_ functions! But people from _Earth_ have a lot more hope,” Rune’s shoulders slump. His good foot hurts from keeping his weight on it. The man looks away, “Just because this is _Mundus_ doesn’t mean I’ve given up. _Kara Dragonborn,_ willing or not, gave herself up to help me. I got to give myself up to help her. I’m not letting her go down the same path I did as Sheogorath.”

“Oh, Rune, sweet, kind Rune, you are a blessing and a saint! A wonder and a grace!” The cavern shudders as if in pain when Sheogorath arrives. Her form has only just finished regenerating, with tender gray patches of flesh visible among the black of her Dremora skin. The Prince takes a curtsy and a spin as she steps down from air to ground. She wears a rich-pink overcoat and a pair of magenta breeches Rune might call _classy_ in any other setting. A gold monocle covers one glowing white eye, and a cap hides most of her hair underneath.

Rune hears his companions fall silent. He does the same, momentarily stunned speechless by the Prince of Madness and her colorful ensemble. The Dragonborn jumps backward and nearly topples over by his own action when Sheogorath strides forward to him. Rune swallows nervously and looks past her at Sanguine, but the Daedric Prince has his back turned.

In the corner, Namira _seethes. “Loathsome… deity...”_

“Shh,” Sheogorath hushes her. She turns to Rune. Her eyes are full of pride. “You’ve done it, my Dragonborn! Talented Rune! My darling, you are truly _impeccable!_ An exceptional talent! All to no ends! You’ve halted Namira in her tracks—Not an easy thing to do, no, no, _no!_ ”

“Well—Sanguine did.” Rune frowns. He lowers the _Wabbajack_ to his side. “He—He got conjured here—Or—I don’t know? But he’s here.”

“Oh, silly me, how foolish of I and us and we to not give kudos where kudos is due. Sanguine,” Sheogorath calls over her shoulder, a riveting grin on her face. “Be a doll and accept my thanks, yes?”

The Lord of Debauchery gives her one glance. The look of mortal grief embedded in the red irises makes Rune fall silent. Even as Sheogorath dawdles on, the Dragonborn cannot focus on her words. He did not expect Sanguine of all Daedra to experience sorrow of that magnitude.

“…If you could please return that to me, I believe adieu is due, my dear,” Sheogorath holds out a hand expectantly. The Prince of Madness smiles at him.

Rune blinks. He looks down at the staff. “Uh. Wait. The _Wabbajack?_ ”

“Yes, yes! _My_ staff! Since Sanguine is here—I do believe some things have changed! Namely, I need to be the one to use that staff on dearest Namira.” The Prince of Madness nods her head vigorously.

The Dragonborn frowns. “But… But. Doesn’t Sanguine have the soul of Namira’s aspect, now? I thought—I thought that was why we were doing all of this! To help her! We don’t need to use it anymore if—”

He feels a chill run down his spine. Sheogorath does not look like the pristine, picture-esque smiling fashionista he perceives her as. As he stares, it dawns on him the smile twitches, the eyes narrow, and even the Prince’s loose posture tightens and tenses. Sheogorath’s outstretched hand begins to strain and clench, as do her teeth. She rips her monocle off her face and stares Rune in the eyes; the white of her entropic gaze glows wildly. “Give. It. To. _Me.”_

“This’s why I told you to have a plan! Oblivion,” Sanguine holds out a hand and his beautiful rose rapier manifests in it. He raises it at Sheogorath and stares coldly at her. The latter begins to chortle and giggle.

“Sheogorath—Why do you need it now?” Rune repeats. He knows the answer, but it is buried inside of him under layers of guilt and remorse. The man’s gaze dims; he tries to step back but his bad foot gives and he falls backward against the broken hall table. The _Wabbajack_ remains clutched tightly in his hands.

Sheogorath ignores the Lord of Debauchery nearby. She strides forward and kneels next to the Dragonborn, meeting his gaze without hesitation. Her laughter dies and she uses a hand to tilt the man’s head up. Rune stares at the face of _Kara Dragonborn,_ a soul since lost to the entropy. Sheogorath smiles politely, “I know you’ve handled things well, Rune. I am _so,_ so proud of you. All of me is! Even the me that is _this_ ,” her free hand gestures at herself. The woman sighs wistfully. She grabs the _Wabbajack_ and rips it from his grasp with ease, straightening upright and talking all in one quick motion. “But Namira is here. She is free. All of us—All of _me_ —Failed to keep her contained! How will you contain her, Dragonborn? Lock her in a box? Light the world with _Magnus?_ You can’t stop what has already begun—And that means—I must do what is necessary to keep you safe—To keep _everyone_ safe—I told you, didn’t I? In this universe—You’re the most important to me. I’ll take you back to before all of this. I’ll make sure you’re safe—"

Her eyes glow white and the Prince of Madness slams the staff into the ground. Great cracks form across the surface of the ground. Chasms begin to open and Rune yelps and crawls away as the ground he just sat on collapses into an endless pit. The Dragonborn hears the room shake and it dawns on him: entropy is breaking down the stability of the cave. He looks up and spots Vilkas, Ria, and the Forsworn person. The man yells, “She’s bringing it down! You need to _leave_!”

“Damnit,” Sanguine’s voice cuts in and draws Rune’s attention. The Dragonborn struggles to his feet as the ground shakes and rumbles. Rock grinds painfully against rock. Sheer tears burst and collapse.

Sheogorath stands on what is now the barest web of a cave floor. The Prince of Madness has a forlorn gleam in her eyes. She looks away from Rune. “I’m sorry it had to be this way. But you must die for the universe to reset.”

“Kara!” Sanguine yells at the Prince of Madness. The Prince still holds his rapier up and steady, even as the cave grows more violent in its tremors. His eyes are a blaze of scarlet; he clenches his teeth and roars again, _“Kara!”_

“Why did you come here, Sanguine? Knowing this would unfold—Did you seek to prevent the inevitable? I _told_ you—I’ll do anything for them! Whatever is necessary to protect them! All of them! All of him! _Anything,_ ” Sheogorath shouts back. The Daedric Prince hefts her _Wabbajack_ up. Her gaze narrows. “I won’t let you destroy what we’ve _created!”_

 _Are you the sacrifice, Sanguine?_ Rune’s gaze dims. _A Daedra for a Daedra? No-No! That’s not right! That’s not enough! There must be a sacrifice! And it’s not a Daedra! It’s not you, it’s not Sheogorath, and it’s not Namira!_

One of the tunnels groans loudly as the ceiling collapses in on it. Ria’s and the Forsworn woman’s cries of surprise are enough to snap Rune out of his thoughts. Vilkas shouts across the cavern in a mix of fear and surprise, _“Namira!”_

“Fuck—Fuck—” Rune growls and pushes himself upright. He stumbles and staggers forward, belting all at once. “—Sheogorath! _Sheogorath! Kara! Sanguine!_ Namira’s—”

In the chaos of two Daedric Princes clashing and a tunnel collapsing, Sheogorath registers the words and snaps her head at the Lady of Rot. Namira breaks free from Sanguine’s thorn-strewn vines of decadence just as the latter sidesteps the Prince of Madness nearby and uses the distraction to shove his rapier through her chest. Sheogorath’s body stills and sways as Daedric blood pours from the wound, a precise hit on an unarmored body. The Prince’s glowing white eyes dim and she collapses against Sanguine’s weapon; the latter catches her just in time, but the Wabbajack falls free from Sheogorath’s hands and rolls across the cavern floor.

Rune’s eyes widen. He looks at Namira and sees the Lady of Rot lurch forward at the artifact. Ignoring the cries of his friends and kin in the background, ignoring even Sanguine and Sheogorath’s second corpse, the Dragonborn dives forward and scrambles on a wave of adrenaline across increasing gaps and shifting chunks of rock that float amidst a white sea of entropy. The Dragonborn catches the end of the _Wabbajack_ just as Namira reaches it; the Lady of Rot howls at the man and rips the staff from him. Namira straightens upright and holds it out, marveling at the power flowing through the gnarled wooden stick. The Lady of Rot’s eyes darken and she stares at the Dragonborn.

 _“You are no lamb,”_ Namira hisses. _“But I welcome all into the darkness.”_

She jams the staff into his chest and activates it. Rune screams as pain floods his body. It dips beyond excruciating and tails the end of what man can physically endure. His heart thuds erratically in his chest as the entropy lays conquest to his flesh. When the energy of the _Wabbajack_ digs through his bones and pierces his soul, he’s a thrashing, convulsing mess, utterly helpless against the staff’s whims. The artifact gouges out his spirit and rips the _dovahkiin_ ’s thu’um from his throat. He gasps for air but finds only entropy and a crown as the man’s body is wracked with unusual power. By the time he comes to, he is no Dragonborn. He is only a man on the ground, a pile of flesh over broken bones and bleeding organs. He hears a sickening _crack_ and the _Wabbajack_ falls to the ground in front of him in two pieces, broken.

Namira howls with pride. She rises to her feet and the world continues to shake and shudder. Rocks fall from the ceiling in pieces as the Prince of Repulsion addresses Sanguine’s aspect, _“He was no hero. Neither was Kara Dragonborn.”_

“Et’Ada were not meant to be heroes,” Sanguine hisses. “We are _gods_ —"

Rune does not have the energy or will to care anymore. The man closes his eyes and lets the pain of his form seep out in open lacerations. He does not know if Ria or Vilkas or the Forsworn woman are still around. He can’t hear any of them. He feels far away, like the world is no more than a great stream and he but a feather in the wind overhead. He feels cold, like the sun has not risen in years and the darkness since engulfs the land. He feels morose, like the weight of the world has fallen from his shoulders and smashed into pieces.

 _Let entropy take me. Take me. This world…_ Rune feels his breathing grow shallow. His thoughts blur together. _I’m… dying?_

An eye opens. He sees a shower of orange ash seep from nothing. A figure takes shape: tall, limp, unmoving. He sees flakes of a dragon’s soul mend into tangible form. Soft black hair pools around scarred white skin. Dull blue eyes stare at his exhausted brown ones.

 _Who are you?_ He wants to ask, except he knows. _You aren’t Namira. But you look…_ He blacks out for a moment. The man struggles to remain conscious. Dust falls on his face and he coughs and hacks weakly.

“…one day… we’ll be… free…” The voice croaks next to him. He opens his eyes and sees the new Dragonborn staring at him, whispering in pained breaths. “…running…”

 _Farkas told me. She used to sing to him. To… Vilkas. Sing their pain away. Sing their…_ Rune’s eyes shut. He shakes involuntarily. _Leilani taught him the song. But she’s… dead. She’s dead. I’m dying. Not Dragonborn. And the Wabbajack…_

He doesn’t know what the staff does, but it’s useless now. The _Wabbajack_ is broke in two. He saw the pieces hit the floor near his head earlier. He knows the artifact holds no power, but part of him wonders if it _did_ when Namira used it on the pitifully mortal man.

 _Did it? Could it? Take away… a dragon’s… Make… new…_ The thought spurs him to awaken. He struggles against his numb limbs and grasps at the broken artifact. He can hear Sanguine being dispelled somewhere around him. He can hear the enraged shouts of the Companion’s Harbinger, of his brother-in-law. But his mind is elsewhere. His eyes open and lock on the _Wabbajack._ Next to him, the Dragonborn lays in a mess of _his_ blood, just as weak and lifeless as he is. But he knows a dragon can only die if slain by another dragon. He knows if he could just _find_ a way to help Sheogorath that the rest will work out.

He remembers the words Vrechinn of Karthspire branch told him. It clicks in his head. He understands the meaning of sacrifice and the mistake he and Kara Dragonborn continue to make in their lonesome. He sees how pitiful it is attempting to be a mortal fighting off the universe alone.

It hurts.

Rune pulls the staff pieces to himself. He cradles the _Wabbajack_ and shuts his eyes, exhausted. He hears Leilani Whitemane’s soft voice, as soothing and sweet as Farkas claimed it to be. The former Dragonborn prays to the Nine for a miracle. He wraps himself around the _Wabbajack_ best he can and wills one thing in the universe to work. Under the melody and a decaying world, Rune feels a surge of entropy pour from the weapon as he uses it on himself.

The cave floor gives in to the entropy Sheogorath first unleashed. Not even the decay of rot can hold it back as the Prince of Madness’s influence begins to flood the cave. The feast comes to a close; Rune feels his spirit lift and float away into a world white as Oblivion is vast. In the distance, he hears the screams and cries of surprise gradually fade away. His strength returns to him. His eyes open. He pushes himself upright and stares at a plane of glowing white mist. Rune’s eyes widen and he staggers to his feet. He is dressed in strange clothes; it takes a moment to register he wears the style of _Earth_ opposed to the glass armor he donned but a moment past.

A soft gasp comes from beyond. Rune stills and looks around the emptiness. His eyes lock unto another form: one with long hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a worker’s outfit akin to what he expects to see in a grocery store. The man swallows nervously and lifts a hand in greetings. The woman stares back at him.

“What did you do?” And it is loud as it is distant, because in a second she stands in front of him, moving before he can blink. Up close, Rune sees the gleam of a shining crown atop the woman’s head—but something is wrong. It is only _half_ the crown.

He feels the weight of metal press down against his messy hair. The man reaches up and flinches at the feeling of an ornate crown nestled in his hair. He pulls it off and stares at it. It too is only half in completion. Rune bites his lip and meets Sheogorath’s gaze. The man frowns. “Then—That’s it. Is it? Is that where this leads to?”

“You used the _Wabbajack_ on yourself,” the woman’s hands tense into fists. She looks ready to cry. “Why would you condemn yourself to this existence? Why would you _make yourself this again?_ ”

“I had to.” Rune frowns. His arms lower to his sides. “I couldn’t let you be alone.”

“But now you’re like me! Now you’re—We’re— _Sheogorath,_ ” Kara wipes her eyes. She sways where she stands. “What will we do? How will this work? You weren’t supposed to use it on yourself—”

“And let you go down the path I did?!” Rune cuts her off. He grits his teeth and jabs a finger at her in accusation. “Are you _serious?_ I’m not—”

“I gave you a life! I wanted you to be the Hero! To be—To be _happy,_ ” the Prince of Madness yells at the other Daedra.

Rune shuts his eyes. He inhales slowly, feeling the white entropy fill his lungs. “If I let you do that—If I let you do this alone—You would wind up like me, Kara. You would go down that path. You almost did. You _tried_ to. You were…” He frowns and slumps where he stands. “You were going to reset the world.”

“To keep you safe. To stop Namira.”

“Well. I’m bad at doing what I’m told. So, no surprise, I did the opposite of what you wanted—And now we’re here. And you know what? I don’t regret it.” Sheogorath nods to his words. He eyes the mirror in front of him, seeing the two-piece suit adorn his form once more. When his hands go to his head, he feels the crown _whole_ and in its rightful place. The Daedric Prince looks back at Kara, at the Dremora with too much pain and time to go around. Sheogorath smirks and tips a top hat at her. “You know, my dear, I think—I think _this_ is what was needed all along.”

“Why would you say that? Why would you—”

“Because!” He cuts her off before she can blubber more. It’s unbefitting the other Prince of Madness. Sheogorath grimaces and looks to the side. “One mind cannot handle the entropy alone. It is in its very nature to crash course toward _discord!_ To break down! That is why we have always failed, dear Kara. It is because we have always been _alone._ And that… That is why I went down my path, and you yours.”

The woman is silent. She stands before him no longer in the outfit of a minimum wage retail worker, but of the brown leathers of a Thieves Guild. Sheogorath nods with approval; it fits her. The Daedric Prince reaches for her shoulders and peers down at her. He smiles.

“You know—This was the first time I made the choice on my own. Sheogorath did not make me do it. Jyggalag did not force me to kneel. I, Rune Dragonborn, wished for it. Believed it. Pursued it. Because we are utter _shit_ on our lonesome.”

Kara looks to the side. She wipes her eyes. “You’re asinine.”

“I know. Both as me here, and me in your world, and me in _mine._ But that’s it: I’m asinine, illogical, and perfectly pompous. It is who I am, Kara! It is who _we_ are. But right now—Right now it is my time to take on entropy. I can see it now. Your mind has suffered under the weight of the world for so long,” Sheogorath pulls her into a hug. He hears her start to tear up again. The man draws back and smiles brightly. “One day, and one not _too_ far away, I will come back here. I will meet you, Kara Dragonborn. And I will let you take the crown for a time, while my mind rests and returns to full strength. And then you shall do the same, and I shall do the same, and we will not let entropy overcome us.”

“You believe that will work?” Kara speaks even as Sheogorath grabs her and pulls her along, one arm wrapped around her shoulder while the other gestures wildly at the air around the two. There is a skip to Sheogorath’s step.

He thinks he can see a skip to hers, too.

The man nods fiercely in response to her question. His grin becomes a wicked smirk and he holds out a hand. In a second, the two’s artifact manifests in his grasp, fresh and whole and new once more. He huffs and holds it by the end before tracing a great oval in the white emptiness front of the two. A portal opens; Sheogorath releases Kara and gestures at the plane of Oblivion beyond. The world beyond the Oblivion Gate has a red tint to its sky and obsidian-black buildings. A castle-like structure can be seen in the distance.

“Now, now. Don’t be sad, my dear. I will be Sheogorath for both our worlds until it is your turn. And then—Then I can go and be _me_ in my world while you are Sheogorath for two! It will work itself out, yes?” The Daedric Prince hums in delight. At Kara’s forlorn expression, the man huffs and taps a foot, “Is something the matter?”

“I just—” The woman, thirty-two once more, looks to the side. Her red-brown eyes soften. It is an unusual look for a Dremora masquerading as a dunmer, but it fits her. It fits _Kara Dragonborn._ When she meets the Prince’s gaze, Sheogorath raises a brow expectantly. Kara pauses. “Will you be okay? Until then.”

“If I wasn’t okay—I wouldn’t have done any of this. I wanted to help you, Kara. I may have forgotten for a time—But I remember now. I remember. Your actions—They helped me. They gave me a chance at happiness, so go off and enjoy yours. If anything, consider all this Daedric Eye Sorcery and Prince Madness work! A part-time job with no pay and little benefits, but it’s _our_ part-time job with no pay and little benefits for eternity! And we will make it work. We will live. One at a time—And our worlds will live with… us.” Sheogorath stills when the woman wraps arms around him.

It’s a nice hug.

“You know,” the Dremora says softly. “I had an older brother once. He was—Terrible. Horrible. I hated him.”

“I had a little sister,” the Prince of Madness muses aloud. “But she was a typical teenager. Young, bratty, headstrong. I couldn’t have asked for a better sister, even if she drove me up the metaphorical wall.”

“If you could stop _interrupting_ ,” Kara Dragonborn draws back. She huffs and crosses her arms. The Oblivion Gate alongside both Princes wails impatiently, but Sheogorath does not close it. He peers at Kara while the latter goes on. “My older brother? I don’t miss him. He was horrible. He probably still is, if he lives back on Earth.”

“Sorry to hear, my dear.” Sheogorath tilts his head to one side.

The Dremora shakes her head. She smiles a small smile. “You know—What I always wanted growing up—Was someone to look out for me. I thought my older brother could be that. He never was. But I,” she hesitates. “I kept hoping, praying, _believing_ —Maybe—Someday—I could have that. The sibling I missed out on in life. Maybe not by blood, but—”

“Kara,” the Daedric Prince is an ounce too excited, practically ready to break into a dance worthy of rivaling a certain Brotherhood’s jester. Sheogorath’s glowing white eyes glow more than usual, as if such a thing is possible. “Are you asking me to be _your new brother?_ ”

“Don’t make it weird.” The woman snorts. She rubs her forehead. “I just—I thought—I thought it was something worth pointing out. Especially if—If we’re going to be the same Prince. It kind of makes us… twins, in a sense. Daedric Twins. No, this is definitely weird. Zeus help me.”

“Sounds delightful, marvelous, _amazing,_ I am _here_ for everything you just intoned,” it may be the entropy talking, but Sheogorath’s head goes a mile a minute and his grin feels ready to rip off his face. He pulls Kara into a hug and laughs in merriment. “Oh, oh, _oh,_ this is wonderful! I and me and we and us are so happy, my dear! This is amazing! We get to be _family!_ I can’t wait for when you can visit the other Mundus! Alesan and Lucia are going to be _ecstatic_ when they hear they’ve got an aunt! Oh—And imagine the look on Vilkas’s face when he hears my sister’s a _Daedric Prince—_ He’ll be groaning to the last plane of Oblivion, ha _ha!”_

Though his laughter is bubbly to the point of keeling over, he settles after a moment and straightens upright. The Prince’s eyes warm considerably. He gestures at the Oblivion Gate. Kara hesitates. She looks back at him, “Are you sure about this, Rune?”

“As sure as we can _possibly_ be, Kara, my dear. You go on, now. I don’t know if time flows properly here as it does there and, well, one musn’t be late for the Dark Brotherhood. Or was it the Thieves Guild?” Sheogorath rubs the back of his head. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, off you go.”

Kara’s gaze softens. She turns to the Oblivion Gate and steps unto its edge. For a moment, the Dremora looks hesitant, perhaps even scared. She bites her lip and her hands clench holding unto the Gate’s lip. Then—she takes a step forward and leaps through. Sheogorath’s smile returns as he watches her tumble into a laundry bin of dirty uniforms. He chuckles and dismisses the gate with a wave of his hand. The man pauses as the entropy around him returns to a state of utter stillness and nothing, waiting for someone and something to interact with it.

Sheogorath’s eyes gleam softly. He walks out and flops into the white mist. He laughs as he tumbles and rolls around in it. He comes to a stop and sighs in contentment.

“I think—I’ll go to the Shivering Isles and fill an entire room with cheese.” The man sits up. He grins with mischief, “And after that— _Jorrvaskr!_ Everyone knows the best pranks to pull are _on_ a Companion, _by_ a Companion!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, everyone (heart)  
> this is the final chapter of the main story, with epilogues regarding... certain characters to come  
> but this IS the end of the consumerism series, the story that ends kara dragonborn's story


	48. epilogue part 1: it could take months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> leilani whitemane works as the apprentice to the warmaiden's smith, adrianne. it's a strange job that has her wandering up and down whiterun at all hours of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unlike daedraborn, these epilogues are not individually tapered to a specific character. they are chronological/linked to one another. :D there are 2 more parts to come. whoo.

The leaves are a soft brown when the wind blows them off the trees across Whiterun. The woman smiles faintly to herself as she watches a gale dance leaves to the ground. It is a peaceful day across the city. The townsfolk are busy carrying on with their daily routines. She watches young children frolic up and down steps, merchants barter prices with potential customers, and Hold Guards make their routes with a skip to their step. The energy is cathartic; the sense of serenity it brings is almost as enchanting as the bright blue sky hanging overhead.

 _Almost,_ she thinks.

It has been one month since the events of Reachcliff unfurled. She does not know much of what took place, only that the cave was a cataclysm for what should have been apocalypse. The Lady of Rot had won, and lost, and she was suddenly alive and far from any realm of gluttonous feasts and aromatic wines.

A bird lands on the ground near her. Leilani stops on the stairs connecting Whiterun’s _Wind_ and _Cloud_ districts. Her blue eyes soften at the sight of the tubby, feathery creature. The songbird chirps at her once before taking off and catching an updraft. The animal’s action looks so simple that, for a moment, the woman wonders if she can join it. She purses her lips and stares as the bird flies off. As tempting as it is to _try_ —and it is very, very tempting—she recalls the note left for her by Rune Dragonborn.

 _Do I call you Rune Man now? Circle Rune? What do you go by if not Rune Dragonborn?_ She continues her trek up the steps to _Dragonsreach._ Adrianne has her running across the entirety of Whiterun today, and she needs to get the Jarl’s sword back to him by noon. As she picks up the pace, the forty-one-year-old woman finds her thoughts continue to drift lazily along, like a leaf in a river.

She does not know what it means to be Dragonborn. She knows what Rune said—The man claims, in his note, the responsibilities and duties of a _dovahkiin_ have been passed to her but reading it on a piece of paper does little to answer her questions. She does not know _how_ to be a Dragonborn. She has scraps of knowledge on the myths and legends, but the actual concept of a _Voice_ , a thu’um, baffles her. She is not a magic-user, and she does not want to learn how to shoot flames by saying a word. The technicalities and terminology of it all also confuse her; she struggles to grasp how the Dragonborn—she still thinks of Rune as one, even if the absentee man is not—can _speak_ such extravagant things into existence.

 _There are no spell scrolls involved. Or—Ingredients. Components. Just the words? The language? How can that work? It sounds terrifying. Isn’t it dangerous? If you shout a word wrong—Your lungs cough up, you drown in your own blood? I haven’t the training, or…_ She thinks the questions all the way up to the Jarl’s keep, where the sword—in its scabbard, she is not being cut today—is handed over and payment passed on. Leilani excuses herself before the Jarl or his steward can ask questions of her last name.

She does not like to think about her uncle. Save for mentions of her brother, Leilani Whitemane does not care to talk about any of her family. Some things should be kept in the past; she wants to move forward.

The next delivery of the day has Adrianne shoving an old helm at the woman. Leilani frowns and stares at the hunk of metal. It clearly isn’t suited for combat; it is far too old and worn to offer much in the way of protection. The woman tucks a strand of black hair out of her face and peers at her employer; Adrianne is already back at work with gloves, tongs, and a blade about to be hammered and shaped.

“Hm?” The Imperial woman pauses when Leilani doesn’t leave.

Leilani bites her lip. She looks at the helm. “What use does a priest have for this?”

“It isn’t the... Leilani, Andurs recently laid a member of the Battle-Born family to rest in the Hall of the Dead. The family asked for his helmet to be restored and put with the coffin. The priest doesn’t own the helmet.” The ginger-haired woman turns back to her workbench. She grunts. “You can break for lunch after. Today’s a slow day.”

The walk to the Hall of the Dead is brisk and cheery. A group of children run past the Nord while she yelps in surprise. Her grip on the old helmet tightens and Leilani exhales slowly. Her hyper-vigilance has not faded, even in the pleasantries of Whiterun, but she has a solid grip on it. Not having a Daedric Prince looming over her shoulders and invading her mind sporadically has eased the stress levels of the woman. She is easily startled but not a complete mess. She sleeps some nights without terrors crawling through her dreams. She has room to breathe again, and she does not have to wear a glove to cover up the heinousness of rot. Staring at her right hand and seeing the old brand there may not bring up happy memories, but it is still a _relief_ compared to Namira’s presence.

“—Lucia! Put that down,” the voice is stern and orderly, but familiar. Leilani frowns and stops near the growing Gildergreen sapling in time to see three kids flank a recognizable face.

 _Short brown hair. Kind eyes. One of the few Companions with restraint. Ria._ Leilani’s gaze warms. She hefts the helm under one arm and waves with the other. Ria pauses when she catches sight of the Nord; the Imperial woman looks her up and down and blinks.

“One—One second,” Ria calls, turning to the children hounding her. “You three _stay here_ , if you run off to play hide-and-seek or—Whatever it is—I’m dragging all you back to Jorrvaskr! You can explain to your parents why I’m not babysitting anymore.”

One of the children, a petite young Imperial girl in leather armor five sizes too big for her, huffs and crosses her arms. She looks to be fourteen. “—Dad said we could practice today! He _said_ we could _train!_ I wanna train!”

“Lucia…” Next to the Imperial child is a younger girl of twelve. She is a Redguard; her skin is a deep, dark brown, and her hair coils as it falls to her shoulders. Her eyes reveal the child’s tentative nature. She fidgets in her red dress, twisting and grabbing handfuls of the dress’s long skirt as she goes.

“It’s not fair—Braith—Just because my Pa gets back from _travel_ don’t mean we have to change all our plans! What’s so important that those two have to be alone for?” Lucia huffs and stomps one foot.

Ria grimaces. She runs a hand through her hair. “—If you give me sass one more time—“

“I want to stay outside,” the third and last of the children butt in. He looks to be Lucia’s age, but is a Redguard like Braith. The boy’s arms are at his side. He looks from Lucia to Braith to Ria. “Please?”

“C’mon, Lucia, it’s better than… Um… Than being stuck inside Jorrvaskr.” Braith reaches for Lucia’s arm and clings to it.

The three kids begin to discuss _compromises_ while Ria turns back to Leilani. The latter walks to her side and looks curiously beyond her, “Are those Rune’s and Farkas’s children?”

“Well—Two of them are. Alesan and Lucia.” Ria nods. “Then—The third’s named Braith. Sweet girl is Amran’s; I don’t know if he was part of the Companions before… Uh… Well, before you left. I’m surprised you guessed, though. I don’t think Rune and Farkas had adopted either when you were here? They weren’t even together, if I remember right.” She rubs her chin.

“Oh! Um. Well.” Leilani looks to the side. Her eyes wander back to the Gildergreen sapling; it’s grown taller in the weeks spent in Whiterun. Her gaze softens. “Vilkas—He mentioned it once, in Karthspire. I figured there can’t be too many children running about Jorrvaskr. Right?”

Ria nods. “Right, right—Oh,” the Companion pauses and looks back to check on the kids. The three have since moved to a group huddle, whispering and scheming as if they are members of the Dark Brotherhood. Ria snorts and faces Leilani. “Hey, any chance you’ve seen our Harbinger today? Aela said she can smell him so he must be in town still. Which is, frankly, weird, but that’s a Circle member for you.”

The Nord shakes her head. Her lips dip into a frown. “I—No. I haven’t. Is he needed at Jorrvaskr?”

“I figure if I can _find_ him—He can help reign in these monsters.” Ria huffs.

“If I see him—I’ll tell him.” Leilani clears her throat. She meets Ria’s stare and frowns. “What?”

“I,” the woman bites her lip. “I’m just—I’m happy you’re okay.”

“Me too—” Leilani jokes, but Ria’s forlorn gaze makes her pause.

The Companion sighs deeply. She puts a hand on Leilani’s shoulder. “Listen. I—I didn’t treat you well in the past. When you were here _before_. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I just—I wanted to say sorry. Alright? I’m sorry. For giving you shit in the past. I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, but if you… If you did want to talk. I don’t know, how do Nords spent time together? Drinking? Waving wooden swords in the air? If you wanted to—”

“I’d like that,” the Nord answers sincerely. She offers Ria a smile and a nod. “Thank you, Ria.”

Ria is called away by the sound of three kids splitting across Whiterun. The Companions shouts at them and takes off in a huff, chasing after Lucia while Alesan and Braith duck and weave around buildings. Leilani’s warm gaze slowly dims. She frowns and looks at the buildings of Whiterun, the cobbled stone streets, and the people moving about their daily lives. Ria’s words help lift her spirits, yet at the same time another issue reflected in them drags her back down. Leilani walks along the path to Whiterun’s Hall of the Dead. As she walks, she thinks. As she thinks, her shoulders slump and her optimism wanes.

Vilkas has barely spoken to her since Reachcliff.

It isn’t like the man has shut her out completely. She’s succeeded in managing short conversations and small talk with him, but it is nothing like it was before. He doesn’t seek her out, nor does he address her unless spoken to directly. It feels like an invisible wall has been built between the two; it pains her to not know why.

 _Maybe Reachcliff changed him. It changed me. It changed Rune._ The thoughts wear on her. She walks down a flight of steps passing down the middle of a small cemetery. Someone has put dozens of bright purple flowers next to the gravestones. Leilani stops at the Hall of the Dead’s door and knocks on it twice. She steps back and frowns. _Is it because of what Rune said? Because I’m Dragonborn? Am I going to lose everyone now that I can say things and make magic happen? Will the rest of my life be lonely?_

At least she’ll have Adrianne and Ria. And Rune, whenever the man sees her again. She recalls the end of his note specifically addressing a trip she and him _must_ take up to High Hrothgar. Training with the Greybeards—She doesn’t remember reading anything about them in the past—is _essential_ to the success of a Dragonborn, so says Rune. She knows she needs the training. Adrianne’s willingness to let her come and go as her _Dragonborn_ nonsense allows is a grace Leilani clings to. She feels nervous trying to embrace the role of a “hero.” She does not see herself as one. She barely sees herself as _Leilani_ most days.

 _Is that why? Because he doesn’t want to be seen with a…_ She struggles to think of the words. It doesn’t add up, but neither does much she’s experienced in existence. For all she knows, maybe Vilkas just sought her for the chase. Perhaps the Harbinger is bored of her now. The thought stings.

When Priest Andurs opens the door and ushers her in, Leilani is silent. She quickly scans the hall for a place to put the helmet down, but the priest—an elderly man with tired eyes but a smile—directs her to the Hall’s catacombs.

“—If you could just set it on Olfrid’s grave, may the Divines carry his soul to Sovngarde…” The priest rattles off a name and location. When he holds the door open, Leilani walks past and finds herself in the gloomy, candle-lit mess of corridors below the Hall of the Dead. The floor slants at a decline as she follows the priest’s directions and turns left, left, and finally comes upon the right turn.

She recognizes the soft words belonging to the Companion’s Harbinger, “…I think… would’ve had my hair.”

“Yours? It reeks.” A snort follows. The voice belongs to a woman, but the name escapes her. The woman goes on. “—Lituas would have _my_ hair. I’d make ‘em take care of it, too.”

“I think they’d appreciate having a strong warrior to look out for them.” Vilkas sounds amused. 

Leilani peeks around the corner. She has suspicions, but she confirms both people are present. Her blue eyes settle first upon the form of a Nord woman with pristine glass armor. The Companion has a helmet covering her hair, but her eyes hold the same familiarity Leilani struggles to identify. It isn’t until the woman snaps her head at the corner and stares Leilani down does the latter recall her name: Njada Stonearm.

“You enjoy eavesdropping?” Njada barks out, voice cold and annoyed. The woman’s hands tense into fists.

Leilani steps out from around the corner. She holds up the helmet. “Priest Andurs asked me to put this on the Battle-Born’s grave. Err—Olfrid Battle-Born, specifically. Adrianne finished restoring it and…”

She trails off in her rambles. The woman feels her face heat up, terribly embarrassed by it all. It dawns on her that Njada and Vilkas were likely conversing about their late child. She hopes she did not ruin any healing or mourning that might have taken place. Though Njada’s glare lessens, the woman continues to watch Leilani like a hawk. Njada’s gaze is offputting, but understandable, and Leilani feels only sympathy for the woman as she walks past the Companion and counts the row of coffins shelved in niches carved from the rock. She passes the small coffin of _Lituas_ and kneels next to an elaborate coffin with gold accents and steel hinges. The name _Olfrid Battle-Born_ is stamped unto the coffin’s front.

Leilani inhales deeply. She glances over her shoulder and confirms Njada still watches her. That doesn’t bother her; she expects as much from the woman. What bites her on the inside is the fact Vilkas doesn’t even look. The Harbinger is silent, his arms crossed, and his eyes remain averted to the side. Leilani turns back to the coffin and wrenches it open. She holds her breath against the dust and smell of decomposition. Olfrid’s body is fresh, but not to the point decay does not permeate the air. The preservative oils can only keep back so much. Leilani holds the coffin open with one hand while she struggles to place the helmet next to Olfrid’s rotten head. She offers a soft prayer to _Talos_ for the dead and shuts the coffin.

She stands, wipes her hands off on her breeches, and looks at Njada. Her gaze dims. “Excuse me.”

Njada moves to the side.

Leilani steps forward but halts as a thought crosses her mind. She turns to Vilkas and pauses, “Oh—Vilkas—”

His eyes are still capable of leaving her a mess of thoughts and feelings. He has the richest brown eyes she has ever seen. They are deep, dark, and beautiful. The moment of awe leaves as quickly as it comes, extinguished by the gut-wrenching reminder that things are not the same as before. He does not give her the small smiles, the warm gaze, or the tiny gestures like running a hand through her hair or squeezing her fingers to remind her he is present. Leilani breaks eye contact and looks at the floor. The candlelight casts small, dancing shadows across the catacomb floor.

“…Ria asked me. Earlier. If—I see you—To tell you she needs your help. Something about wrangling children.” The woman frowns. “They seem like a handful.”

“…Ah, I forgot,” Vilkas grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. The long, dark locks are free from the confines of a ponytail or bun today. They still look soft, but Leilani keeps her hands to herself as the Harbinger turns to Njada and states. “I’m sorry—I forgot I agreed to help watch them today.”

“They’re… reasonable children.” Njada huffs. She crosses her arms. “Go on, Ria needs you more than I do.”

“Mm.” Vilkas grunts. The man stills and Leilani picks up why.

She doesn’t offer goodbyes. She turns and walks back the way she came from, recounting the turns and twists. She is startled at the footsteps following her. The woman stops and hears the steps stop. She frowns and turns around. Her arms rest at her sides. She eyes Vilkas carefully. “What are you doing, Harbinger?”

“Walking out.” The Harbinger clears his throat. He looks less tired than usual, but he constantly scans the catacombs around the two.

Her gaze dims. “That’s not… Vilkas. You know good and well what I’m referring to. You aren’t.. What do you call it? A whelp? Whelps? The new Companions—”

“Whelps, aye.” The man pauses. For a moment, Leilani can see something flicker in the earth-toned gaze. It is too fast for her to make it out. Vilkas crosses his arms and gestures at the catacombs. “You remember this?”’

“I don’t know what _this_ is.”

“You had a flashback once. Shortly after—After Kodlak asked me to guard you,” the mention of her uncle’s name makes the woman tense. Vilkas bites his lip. He glances at her. “You had a flashback—Ran in here. I found you in one of these corners.”

It confuses her why he brings it up _now_ of all times. He hasn’t gone out of his way to do so since Reachcliff. The closest thing she remembers to it is the man grunting when she asked if he considered Ysolda a reputable seller of nectar and other cooking ingredients. The memory irritates her. She is not easily annoyed, but her patience has a limit. Leilani frowns and stares at Vilkas. She says nothing, willing him to go on before he shuts her out again.

The Harbinger’s exhale is soft. It sounds almost pained. He shuts his eyes. “—Then— _I_ had a flashback—And we were both stuck in this corner. A mess.”

 _I’m still a mess._ Leilani wants to say. She holds her tongue.

“I know you can handle yourself,” Vilkas says softly. His words are strained. The man meets her gaze and for a moment all she sees is warmth peeking through. The Harbinger steps closer and takes one of her hands in his own. It feels warm; the man isn’t wearing gauntlets or the rest of his armor today, merely civilian clothes. Vilkas pauses, then adds on to his previous words, “But if—If—If it happened again—I’d be here. To help you—”

The voice of old Andurs rattles and echoes through the catacombs but a corner away. “—Ahem! Miss—Leilani—Did you find everything alright? I—I have a lantern—And a _map_ —If—That would assist you!”

Leilani can feel her own rigid exhale. She feels Vilkas release her hand and step back. He looks frustrated with himself. His gaze avoids hers again. She turns away and calls back, “—I found it—Thank you! I’ll be out shortly.”

Vilkas doesn’t say a word to her even after the two leave the Hall of the Dead. She doesn’t try and make him, either. Her chest aches with questions. When the two trek the stairs leading away from the Hall and back to the Gildergreen plaza, Leilani stops. She halts in front of the sapling and stares at it. Beyond, to the left, is the path leading up to _Jorrvaskr_. The mead hall is visible from where she stands. To the right, the path continues downward in a descent through the remains of the _Wind_ district and crosses over into the _Plains_ district. Leilani can smell the fires of both the _Skyforge_ and Adrianne’s smithery even at the distance.

She looks back at Vilkas. Her eyes dim. “By Talos—You’re an asshole.”

The man snaps his head back and stares at her. His mouth hangs open for a moment.

Leilani doesn’t care. She will make herself not care. She doesn’t know if it’s because he’s bored of her, or because she’s some complicated thing called _Dragonborn,_ or whatever—She’s tired of trying to reach out and reconnect with him when he’s put his own walls back up. She bites her lip. “I don’t know what changed. But—I’m sorry if it’s because of me—”

“You’re Dragonborn now,” Vilkas says the words so softly they almost go over her ears. “That—"

Leilani’s eyes widen. She does not have words to say, because there is nothing _to_ say. Hearing the sentiment from Vilkas firsthand crushes her; she wonders, momentarily, if this is what Rune Dragonborn dealt with during his time as the _legendary_ hero, the loneliness accompanied by gargantuan responsibility he didn’t ask for. Then the thought slips, her eyes drop, and she walks away before Vilkas can finish his spiel. When she sees Adrianne, the woman requests her month’s pay up till then. Adrianne hands it over with a frown.

“You going somewhere?” The blacksmith pauses.

 _Rune's back. But he doesn't need to come with me. I know where it is._ The Dragonborn’s shoulders slump. “High Hrothgar. The Greybeards—"

“Ah,” Adrianne nods slowly. She frowns and looks Leilani up and down. “In that outfit? You’ll freeze to death before the first thousand steps are up.”

“What would you recommend? I don’t—I haven’t the money for fancy enchanted armor. I don’t have my ebony set anymore. I’m lucky to have scrapped enough money and supplies to make this.” Her gaze falls to her waist, where the silver-steel blade sits neatly in its sheathe.

Adrianne grimaces. The Imperial woman sets her work down—the lone blade she saw earlier now has a handle, guard, and gorgeous inscription carved into the steel—and rubs her chin. Her eyes shift from Leilani to the _Warmaiden_. “Tell you what. I’ll lend you one of my old sets. It isn’t to keep—So you best keep it in good shape, Leilani. It has the inner padding and lining you need to stay warm at that altitude.”

The woman’s eyes widen. “Are—You sure, Adrianne? I don’t know how long it’ll take. High Hrothgar’s far. It could be months—”

“I won’t repeat myself. I trust you. You run hard, shovel harder, and got a good head on your shoulder. Can’t ask for a better apprentice.” The Imperial huffs.

Leilani’s eyes water. She doesn’t mean to, but she is touched by the gesture, especially after how things have gone with the Companion’s Harbinger. She wraps Adrianne in a quick hug and whispers against her shoulder, “—Thank you.”


	49. epilogue part 2: i married you (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rune may not be the dragonborn, but he's happy to take a break from being the prince of madness once in a while. he enjoys a winter morning surrounded by his friends and family.

“I have mail,” The man grins ear-to-ear when he bursts through Jorrvaskr’s back doors. The winter morning is a glorious time to be awake; it means he has first-hand seats to seeing the rest of the Companions in their tired, grouchy glory.

He sees Ria lecturing his daughter on how _not_ to use a longsword. Lucia isn’t convinced by her teacher’s spiel. Nearby, Njada and Athis have taken up positions in the training grounds. Athis looks rested but Njada’s stare could kill a man. The glare the latter gives him is all worthwhile; Rune waves without a care in the world before he plops into a chair and makes a grab for his husband’s hand.

Farkas looks well-rested. The man’s short hair is notoriously handsome on him, something Rune takes time to appreciate as he feels Farkas give his hand a squeeze. The Imperial stretches before he stops and wrestles a letter free from his pocket. It’s a fight to move in winter coats, but Rune manages, though not without a snort from Farkas. The latter plucks the letter from his hand and turns it over; Farkas squints and looks up at Rune. “Who wrote this? Calligraphy’s not… Not my thing.”

“Pa!” Lucia shouts from the sparring grounds. Rune grins wholeheartedly at the fact he and Farkas both look up. Lucia’s fists ball up and she stomps one foot. “Why can’t one of _you_ train me, huh?”

“Ria’s better with a sword than me. I’m still adjusting from the whole not-Dragonborn thing!” Rune turns to Farkas. His eyes soften when the man smiles at him. “You want to have a go?”

“If you’re okay with it. She’s not going to be happy when she loses,” Farkas remarks with a shake of his head. He hands the letter back to Rune, rise, and walks out to the training fields.

Rune inhales the cold Skyrim air. He smiles and turns to the only other person awake and outside. His brother-in-law does not look nearly so rested. Rune feels a ping of sympathy for the man; no doubt it relates to the intensifying civil war conflict spanning Skyrim. Without him serving as Dragonborn, there is no treaty or truce, and without a ceasefire, the _Alduin_ problem continues in the background while Stormcloaks and the Empire surge and clash against each other. Conflicts have popped up across Whiterun Hold one too many times; it is a nigh-daily job to ensure the civilians across the Hold are spared from the violence and devastation of war.

The former Dragonborn feels slightly bad, but in his mind the present circumstances are the best possible outcome for all individuals involved. He and Kara Dragonborn get to trade-off time spent as the Prince of Madness, living normally in their respective plane of Mundus during the “down” time. At long last, the force of entropy symbolizing _Sheogorath_ has been tamed. There need not be more struggles or resets, because everything has found its place. He feels good about it, though part of him wonders how Kara Dragonborn has fared thus far. It is her first time back as the Prince since Reachcliff’s events unfurled months ago. Rune makes a note to write down questions to ask her later.

“You’re staring,” his brother-in-law sounds grumpy, and he is. Vilkas has a glass of water on the table to his side. He grimaces and reaches for a hard pastry, turning it over in his hands before biting into it.

Rune raises both brows. “You’re playing with your food. Divines, Vilkas. Cut me a break; the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Did Leilani send that?” The question is spoken between bites. The Harbinger is a hungry man; he devours the pastry in minutes.

The former Dragonborn huffs and shoves it at him. “Read it yourself.”

“…Should I?” Vilkas takes the letter, but he does not unfold the paper. The man’s brown eyes are nowhere near as interesting as Farkas’s, but they reveal enough for Rune to get the general picture; the former Dragonborn sits back in his seat and stares at his brother-in-law. When Vilkas notices him staring, his gaze narrows and he repeats, “You’re staring.”

“Why wouldn’t you read it?” Rune asks. He purses his lips.

Normally, he would fight Vilkas’s irritation amusing. The man does not. He sits upright and peers at Vilkas expectantly, as if he already knows the answer. When the Harbinger does not budge, Rune reaches for the letter again. The Harbinger leans away _just_ enough to keep him from taking it.

“You’re being obtuse. It’s a type of angle where I’m from; more than ninety-degrees.” The former Dragonborn blurts out.

“The day before she left—I ran into her. No, she ran into me. I was with Njada, seeing Lituas.” Vilkas shuts his eyes and exhales softly. He looks pained. Vilkas shakes his head as he goes on, “She’s—She noticed I was… I wasn’t _myself._ It’s been that way since Reachcliff. Not with anyone else. Just her.”

“Just her.” Rune slaps his forehead with his palm. He groans loudly. “Gods, this already sounds terrible.”

The other man’s sunken glare shuts him up. Vilkas looks down at the letter in his hands. He hesitates, “I… I didn’t think it would bother her—If I—I was trying to give her space. Suddenly being a Dragonborn… it’s a big change. That and everything else. I thought she’d need time to settle. Isn’t that what people do for one another? Not rush things?”

“I mean.” Rune nabs a pastry for himself. It’s an interesting scone, nowhere near as appetizing as it could be, but since Tilma’s execution there hasn’t been a top-tier chef at Jorrvaskr. The former Dragonborn nibbles on it, chews, and swallows before pointing out. “—What were things like before? You give her space then? I kind of jumped in on this mess at the tail end of things, so. You need to fill me in on things if you want advice. …I am assuming you want advice, Vilkas?”

“Perhaps.” The Harbinger grunts. He chugs the rest of his water and exhales sharply.

Rune snorts. The man cracks his neck. “Go on, then. This might be the only time I have free today.”

“You got plans?” Vilkas doesn’t believe him.

The former Dragonborn can’t help but lean back in his seat, slouched and amicably sassy. He gestures at his husband, where Farkas is knelt next to Lucia and fixing the way she holds the training longsword. Lucia doesn’t look pleased. Rune smiles fondly at the picture and glances back at Vilkas. His smile becomes a grin as he calmly intones, “For me? Oh, no! I try to keep my schedule clear in case my Companions need me. But _Farkas_ , on the other hand—”

“I don’t want to hear of it,” the Harbinger grimaces.

“Yeah, yeah.” Rune shrugs. He gestures at the letter. “If you aren’t gonna talk—Can I have that back? I’ve only read half.”

Vilkas hesitates before he hands it over. The man looks troubled. “…I ask you don’t share everything with the others.”

“Why would I?” Rune snorts. “C’mon. I’m an asshole, sure, but I’m your asshole-in-law. You can trust me—”

“We had a brief relationship.” The Harbinger looks for a jug of water but finds none. He holds his head in his hands and sighs. His long hair is a mess around his shoulders, free to fall where it pleases.

Rune finds the news concerning. The former Dragonborn squints and stares at Vilkas, refusing to budge until the Harbinger frowns and glances up at him. Only then does Rune muster up a harsh but low whisper, snapping at the man accusingly, “Vilkas… I’m trying _really_ hard not to judge you… but if you fucked a corpse—Even I draw a line at necrophilia.”

“ _Oblivion,_ I didn’t—” Vilkas growls. His hands tense. “She wasn’t—”

“Just checking!” Rune huffs. His gaze returns to his husband and daughter on the training fields. Ria stands back from the two, supervising while Farkas demonstrates ways to block and feint with the sword. Lucia’s gaze reveals how enamored she is with the whole concept. It is good to see her doing something besides complaining; Rune hopes the girl will continue to hone her skills in the future. At the least, sword-fighting is something the two can help her with. When it comes to Alesan, the child’s dream of becoming a mage is much harder to pursue. Winterhold is far from Whiterun and neither Rune nor Farkas have money or means to take the boy there yet.

Rune makes a note to send a letter to the Jarl of Winterhold. Perhaps, if he can seize a recommendation letter from Balgruuf the Greater, the former Dragonborn can coax the Jarl of Winterhold into sponsoring his son to attend the College of Mages. 

“She was mostly human. Alive,” The Harbinger relents in quiet words. He looks as flustered as he should be; his face is pink and highly noticeable against the dark winter coat and fur armor he dons. “Namira’s influence hadn’t… It hadn’t taken over all of her.”

“I get the impression you two rushed things?” Rune blinks, snapping back to the topic at hand.

Vilkas shrugs. When he talks, he sounds defeated. “—She kissed me. I confronted her. It all sort of… came out. Happened. That was that.”

“You _did_ rush things.” He’s starting to get it now. The former Dragonborn knows he has a questionable attention-span, but he can still put two-and-two together when its right in front of him. Rune looks at the letter in his hands and huffs. “You didn’t talk to her about this after?”

“No—I was trying—”

“To give her _space_ , I know, I know, see—” The former Dragonborn stands and stretches. He inhales the crisp winter air and stares at Vilkas. “If you two began in a rush—Maybe she thought that was your _normal._ A rush. If you suddenly gave her space—You didn’t say why—She might’ve thought something was wrong. That she upset you, or… Something. Something, yeah.”

“She called me an asshole before she left. But I—” Vilkas bites his tongue. He sucks in a breath and tries again. “—I was trying to— _Explain_ —The reason—It’s because she’s Dragonborn now—”

“Is that what you said?” Rune stares.

The Harbinger scowls. “I wouldn’t _lie.”_

“You told her—Just to be _perfectly clear_ —You said—You were treating her different—Which she perceived as bad—Because she’s _Dragonborn?”_ The former Dragonborn curses in frustration. He shoves the letter at Vilkas and snaps. “Gods, how do you get out of bed? Make breakfast _?_ Learn to date? Learn manners? Communicate? _Relationships?_ I’m not a therapist, Vilkas! I can only help so much!”

“What’s a therapist?” Alesan’s soft voice comes from the back doors of _Jorrvaskr_ as the boy shuts them behind him. He wears a blue shirt, leather slacks, and oversized fur boots. He looks around with large, sleepy eyes. “Pa?”

“Uh… It’s a thing. Where I come from.” Rune clears his throat. He sits down and grins cheerfully at his son. “Y’know. The mythical land of _Texas._ ”

“Texas.” Vilkas repeats under his breath.

 _“Alesan!_ ” Lucia shouts across the open grounds. She eyes her brother and stomps a foot. “Get your butt out here! I wanna train!”

“You got Pa and Ria.” The boy mumbles. He yawns.

Lucia huffs loudly. She points her wooden sword at him. At a distance, it is not intimidating, but Rune keeps that to himself. Lucia calls out, “I want to train with my _brother!_ ”

“Do I have to?” Alesan’s shoulders slump.

“Nah,” Rune shakes his head. He looks at Vilkas. “Look, she didn’t say _not_ to read the letter. It’s just—It’s a general notice. An update on where she’s at in life. So—Go, read the letter, and figure out what where your head’s at. Not like you got anything better to do.”

Vilkas’s gaze indicates the Harbinger strongly opposes his words, but to Rune’s surprise his brother-in-law says nothing. Rune hands the letter over and watches him unfold it. The parchment smells old but the ink fresh. As Rune waits, he observes tiny flickers of emotion visible on the Harbinger’s face: the widening of surprise, the softness of unspoken affection, and lastly—the twitch of his lips, embodying an internal conflict. Rune finds the man’s reactions curious. He purses his lips and peers at him until Vilkas obliges and hands the letter back. The Harbinger’s gaze dims; Vilkas averts his eyes to the side.

“You read fast.” Rune attempts to lighten the mood with a joke.

“I need to go to High Hrothgar,” Vilkas says quietly. “She—Leilani—She mentioned—She wants to see the stars from the Throat of the World. See pinpricks of Aetherius. I need to go to the Greybeards..”

“In the middle of winter?” Rune grimaces. “Seven-thousand-steps aren’t easy to climb just because you’re a Nord, Vilkas.”

“Says the Imperial.” Vilkas runs a hand through his long hair. He shuts his eyes and sighs. “Was this addressed to you?”

“Mm.” The former Dragonborn’s gaze flits to Alesan as the latter scampers off to the training fields. _Seems like he wanted to practice with Lucia after all._

“That explains it.” Vilkas doesn’t explain his words. He gives the letter back and enters Jorrvaskr without further comment. Rune watches the doors fall shut behind him; he tilts his head to one side and glances at the letter in his hands.

The man opens the parchment and skims the contents. Most of it is nothing more than subtle nods of appreciation to himself, Ria, Farkas, and Adrianne in Whiterun. Leilani mentions a fair portion of the Seven-Thousand Steps, particularly an area infested with frost trolls. Seeing the words written so carefully makes Rune smile faintly; he remembers scaling the mountain for the first time and his trouble fighting off a wild frost troll. The latter half of the letter delves into Leilani’s arrival to High Hrothgar, meeting the Greybeards, and befriending Master Arngeir. It warms Rune’s heart to learn all four _human_ Greybeards are alive and well.

Though the Words of Power don’t come as easily her as they did him, Rune finds it comforting to know she has begun to master certain phrases and apply them in practice. She may not be the Dragonborn the world asked for, but she will be a Dragonborn all the same. At the bottom of the page—He stops. The former Dragonborn’s gaze softens at the woman’s writing, simple yet forthcoming in its own way.

_Master Arngeir believes I’m strong enough to meet the Grandmaster. They called him Paarthurnax. He lives at the top of the summit. I was nervous first, but the Masters here are reassuring. They say Grandmaster Paarthurnax is the strongest of the five. Did you meet him during your time at High Hrothgar? They won’t tell me what went on during your training._

_I want to be excited to see the summit, but I worry it will not live up to everything I want it to be. I’ve always dreamed of seeing it firsthand, of scaling the slopes, of watching the auroras. I thought I would get to see it with Vilkas. Life didn’t turn out that way, Rune, but I’ve accepted that. I plan to make the most of what I have now. Thank you for giving me this chance._

_When I finish my training with the Greybeards, I plan to go to Riverwood. I’ll write to you then. Give Farkas and Ria my best._

“Leilani?” Farkas’s voice snaps the former Dragonborn from his thoughts. Rune looks up to find his husband peering over his shoulder at the paper. Without a word, the man hands it to Farkas to read. His husband quickly reads it and frowns. “Riverwood.”

“Yeah. Guess she wants to live by a river?” Rune shrugs. He flushes bright red when Farkas meets his gaze and steals a kiss.

“It’s… an alright town.” Farkas takes Rune’s hand and gently pulls him through the doors of _Jorrvaskr,_ wandering around the table of chatting, drinking Companions and to the stairs leading to the living quarters.

The man already knows where his husband is headed. He peeks into the whelps hall as the two stride down the hall and divert to the Circle’s private quarters; it’s empty, most other Companions have risen and begun the day. Granted, Rune had been joking when he said his husband has plans for him, but he is already turned on from the kiss alone. Farkas is too attractive a bloke not to become flustered around. When Farkas holds the door to the two’s shared bedchamber open, Rune cracks a grin and heads on in. He doesn’t make it to the bed before Farkas has his arms around him; the Nord feels out Rune’s muscles and the man’s throat rumbles in want while Rune tries not to laugh from how much it tickles. He squirms out of Farkas’s grasp and turns around in time to catch his husband’s hungry gaze.

“I missed you,” Farkas seizes the man’s lips with his own. He bites Rune’s lower lip and presses against him. As Rune steps backward toward the bed, Farkas steps forward and claims more and more of his oxygen.

When Rune trips on the edge of the bed and falls backward, Farkas snorts in amusement. Rune huffs and opens his eyes in time to see his husband strip off his shirt and coat. The clothes fall to the floor. They belong there as much as Farkas’s bare chest belongs on top and underneath him. Rune feels heat pool in his groin as Farkas climbs on top of him and kisses him more vigorously. For a man of forty years, Farkas might as well be in his twenties; he has a desperate, seeping hunger behind his caresses. His hands seek to claim Rune’s flesh as his own. When Farkas begins to undo the buttons and clasps of Rune’s attire, the former Dragonborn exhales sharply and bites his lip to hold the moan.

“I’ve been back for a week,” the former Dragonborn mumbles when Farkas has him half-naked beneath him. Only Rune’s breeches and boots remain. When his husband begins to tear off the man’s belt, Rune flushes bright red and breathes loudly. He mumbles a curse under his breath when Farkas throws the belt to the side and begins to work on his pants. One of Rune’s hands keeps him propped up while the other tangles in his husband’s short hair.

Farkas pauses long enough to climb off him and rip his breeches free. The undergarments, socks, and boots follow. The Nord returns to Rune’s form and presses a kiss to his neck. He inhales deeply and states in a low, deep tone, “You’ve been _busy_ for a week. Love.”

“Not by choice—Ah—” Rune melts under the man’s touch, panting heavily as Farkas nibbles different points on his collar. There is no denying how intoxicating it all is: Farkas might as well be Divine by bedchamber standards, for Rune can only think about worshipping him. He begins to grind his hips against the man’s clothed groin. It entices a growl from the usually sweet-spoken Nord. When Farkas digs his teeth into Rune’s shoulder, the latter gasps and flinches. _“Farkas!”_

In a second, his husband’s demeanor changes. Farkas draws back and frowns. His eyes are full of concern and remorse, “Did—Are you okay? Was that too much? Rune?”

“Gods,” the former Dragonborn mumbles dizzily. He feels Farkas climb off him and wrap him in his arms. The man’s proximity and heat—and his toned muscles—makes him want to beg. Rune looks up at his husband and manages a small smile. “No, no—Not—Not too much. Hah.”

“Are you sure? Love.” Farkas looks utterly horrified at the concept.

“Far, _far_ from too much. I was just—I was surprised.” Rune’s smile grows. He leans up and kisses the man. His heart begins to pound in his ears when Farkas kisses him back. The former Dragonborn shifts the two to have Farkas lay down on the bed. Rune kisses the man’s cheek and draws back far enough to offer a cheeky grin. “So. I know you’ve been giving a lot.”

“Not enough. Never enough for you.” Farkas blinks. “Rune—”

“Hey—Hey—Tonight’s—Well, today’s a special day. And I don’t know how long we’ll have before one of the kids comes looking for us. So—Just—Lay back, relax, let me do something for once.” The former Dragonborn’s eyes twinkle. He grabs hold of his husband’s pants for emphasis.

Farkas hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Mm,” Rune answers by taking the waistband and pulling it down. He does not stop until he has freed all of Farkas from his breeches and undergarments. The former Dragonborn crawls up and gently parts his husband’s legs. Farkas swallows and flushes bright red as Rune makes a point of looking from him to his cock.

When Rune lowers himself to the man’s penis and kisses the tip, Farkas groans in need. The sound is music to his ears; Rune drops his head and takes the head of the man’s shaft in his mouth. He tastes salty pre-cum and gleefully begins to swirl his tongue around the tip. Farkas moans and arches his back into his husband’s mouth while Rune’s hands slowly massage the length of the shaft. What begins as soft noises become strangled cries desperate for release. Rune sucks the man until Farkas suddenly jerks and his cock twitches in the man’s mouth; a second later the ejaculate hits his taste buds and Rune draws back, gagging.

Farkas is red as a beet. Rune finds it adorable, but he has no chance to voice it before Farkas scrambles up and tackles the man. His husband pins him to the bed and breathes in his scent. Already, the man’s erection returns and it prods Rune’s thigh. The former Dragonborn huffs at first, but the feeling of his husbands hand on his cock makes him squawk. Farkas gives him a look before bursting out in soft laughter. Rune can’t help but laugh with him.

“By Mara,” Farkas says softly, looking down at him when the two are calm. “I love you.”

“Good.” Rune teases. He shifts himself to roll unto his stomach. When Farkas grabs a pillow, Rune lifts his hips up enough for the man to position it beneath him. His husband leaves temporarily to fish out a jar of lube from the two’s night chest.

It has been way, _way_ too long since the two have had a chance to connect like this. Rune’s heart hammers in his chest. He feels heat creep unto his face. Watching Farkas return to him, climb on the bed, and uncap the jar makes his stomach twist with butterflies. When the man dips a finger into the jar and begins to apply the cold substance to his rear, Rune holds his breath. He squirms impatiently beneath Farkas’s touch.

His husband shakes his head in amusement. “Can’t wait?”

“For you? Heavens, no.” Rune states. He feels Farkas shift on the bed and climb on top of him, hovering briefly over his nude body. The feeling of vulnerability at such positions only adds to his arousal; Rune finds himself growing hotter and more heated every second Farkas draws out. He wants the man. He _needs_ the man. When Farkas lowers his hips to Rune’s sphincter and rubs the tip of his cock against it, Rune shudders in anticipation.

Farkas slowly presses inside. Rune’s muscles tense initially before he relaxes and pants under his husband’s touch. As Farkas scoots his hips closer and fills the man’s rear, Rune begins to moan. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the time spent since the two last had intercourse, but his husband feels thicker. He feels each inch spread inside him. When Farkas grunts and begins to draw out, Rune’s hand clenches the two’s bedsheets and he lets out a cry. It is all he can do before his husband starts to thrust. The former Dragonborn buries his head in his bedsheets and shakes as Farkas gyrates into him. Each thrust leaves him in seconds of euphoria; the bliss comes again, again, again as his husbands cock hits his prostate.

He can’t hold out for long. He’s a mess of need and fervor. Rune’s gasps become cries and his cries become breathy shrieks as Farkas throws his body weight into the man. The two’s bed creaks loudly from the force of his thrusts. As Farkas grows in intensity, he begins to grab and claw at the man. Rune yowls in delight when his husband rakes sharp nails down his back. Farkas growls and pounds the man into the mattress. When he reaches his precipice, when the Nord is a mess of slapping skin and Rune’s cries, Farkas pins him to the bed and hisses into Rune’s ear. Rune begins to tremble as the man ejaculates into his rear. His own orgasm drips out of his limp cock, uselessly shot out in the lust-fueled haze.

Farkas breathes heavily unto Rune’s back. He presses a kiss where the man was scratched, then pulls out. Rune’s whimper at the man’s cock sliding out is enough for Farkas to inhale. He climbs off Rune and pulls the tired man into his arms. Rune collapses against his chest. “By Mara.”

“By Mara.” Farkas agrees in a whisper. The man leans down and kisses him deeply.

Rune can’t help but smile through his exhaustion. He kisses his husband back and mumbles against him, “Do I get to look forward to a good time whenever I get back?”

“Only if… you want to do it, love.” His husband’s voice becomes gentle. Farkas runs a finger down the scratches on his husband’s body. Rune shivers and presses himself against the Nord’s hand.

The former Dragonborn’s lips curve into a smirk through his aches and sore back. He can’t help but lean against Farkas and whisper, “Guess I’ll have to plan some outings, then. If it’s anything like these—"

Farkas inhales deeply. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rune laughs. “I already am the luckiest man in the world!”

An unspoken question flickers through Farkas’s dark eyes. His husband frowns and peers at him. Rune takes his hand and squeezes it.

“I mean,” the former Dragonborn prays his voice doesn’t crack. He clears his throat and brings Farkas’s hand to his mouth to kiss it, speaking softly, “—I married you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one epilogue left  
> :D  
> heh


	50. epilogue part 3: home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> leilani whitemane returns to the sleeping giant inn for the first time since she first fought the silver hand there sixteen years ago. she continues her search for home.

It has been over sixteen years since she visited the Sleeping Giant Inn. The building is just as she remembers it: a humble and quaint inn tucked away into the corner of Riverwood, with ample-sized rooms for rent and two innkeepers who have since moved past excitement in their lives. It is a warm, friendly place; the building has ample room across the central room to sit and converse with other travelers and residents alike. It gives Leilani a chance to breathe, to listen, and to watch how Riverwood treats not only guests but its own citizens. She notes the Hold Guards behaviors when they stop by, she engages the innkeeper in friendly conversation about local rumors, and she chats with a local smith about his business.

 _I like it here._ She thinks after her conversation with the smith ends. The black-haired woman looks at her cup of ale and pushes it aside in favor of water. A small smile graces her face. _I could live here. Build a house by a river. It won’t be White River, but it could be home._

She finds the months to have passed quickly since she first left Whiterun. Back then, the sky was often clear, and trees still wore their leaves. It is late winter across Skyrim; when Leilani looks out the inn’s windows, she sees specks of snow fall in the fading evening light. _Magnus_ has begun its daily travel toward the horizon line. The evening hues light many clouds a strange, ghoulish gray-red. It is beautiful, but it is also startling, because she does not remember seeing it before. Her time at High Hrothgar has set her expectations high for sunsets; she recalls the glorious gradients of scattered hues and smooth transitions between intense values and softer variations. From the base of the mountain, Leilani is not so easily swayed.

She exhales sharply and pushes her seat back. The woman carries her dishes back to the innkeeper; she smiles politely at him and pushes an extra stack of gold at him for his troubles.

“You sure, miss?” The Nord peers at her, perplexed. He has grayed hair with hints of brown in its past. The wrinkles on his forehead and chin cannot be missed. When Leilani nods, the innkeeper pauses and takes the coin. As he sticks it in his pocket, he comments quietly. “Forgive me if ah be asking out of line—But you from around here? Your face is… It’s familiar.”

“No. Falkreath.” Leilani shakes her head. She drums her fingers on the counter of the bar. “Sorry—I don’t want to be rude, but—Is there any chance my room…?”

“Sorry, miss,” the old innkeeper coughs. He clears his throat and frowns. “Not yet. Don’t know where the lad is. He said he’d get his stuff out by dusk.”

“And there’s no others?” Leilani bites her lip.

“None yet. If one comes up, I’ll let you—” the old man coughs again. He covers his mouth with his hand. The Dragonborn’s eyes grow wide in concern; she lifts her hands and is ready to say something when a terrible roar pierces the air. The building shakes and Leilani freezes in place. Other patrons, a mixture of people passing through Riverwood and its residents, begin to talk in hushed voices. A second roar follows, but this time the great beast it belongs to lands outside the inn.

A terrible shout of, _“Dragon!”_ follows.

Leilani feels her blood freeze over. She has not fought a dragon, only frost trolls and fear-inspiring wildlife. Her greatest tale as _Dragonborn_ involves shouting two rampaging trolls off a cliff. The woman has yet to strike down giants, much less _mammoths_ , and her skills with her longsword are substantial but not _excellent_. She also lacks in gear: her armor is a set on loan by Adrianne in Whiterun. While warm, the armor holds little in the way of magical enchantments. If the dragon has a fire breath—or worse, the _Drain Vitality_ shout Paarthurnax warned her about—she will lose. When the Dragonborn stops to reflect on what Words of Power she remembers, Leilani internally curses.

 _Fus ro dah. Unrelenting Force. Laas… Laas is life. And Yol is fire?_ She struggles to recall the Greybeards other teachings. Though the old Nords and dragon were diligent in having her study ancient texts and recite the _dov_ tongue, it doesn’t feel like much of it has stuck. Leilani bites her lip. _It will have to do. This is my destiny._

When she grabs the handle of her longsword, the woman feels a ping of fear ricochet through her chest. She unsheathes it regardless; the woman runs to the inn doors and sucks in a deep breath. She pushes the door open and storms out into the winter night with resolve blazing in her eyes. Any determination or hope dissipates when she comes face-to-face with the great beast: a terrible creature with vicious teeth and deep brown scales. Behind the dragon, Leilani spots a house set alight by the dragon’s smoking breath. The creature peers at her with beady eyes; it looks terribly _hungry_ and ready to feast.

She cannot move. Her feet feel affixed to the spot.

 _“Dovahkiin…?”_ The dragon gurgles the word. It sucks in a breath.

Leilani does not have protection against the fire. She throws her hands up and screams as the beast exhales a blast of _yol_. A hand grabs her wrist and drags her to the side; the woman stumbles and follows as the person _pulls_ her behind the inn. She catches her breath there: adrenaline races through her veins, her hands shake, and she resists the urge to sob. Her silver-steel sword drops to her feet. She hears the dragon bellow in the distance but hands land on her shoulders.

“Leilani—Leilani look at me, please,” the voice is familiar. When she looks up, she falls speechless and stares at the Companion. Vilkas’s brown eyes hold an endless amount of worry. The man exhales sharply and releases her. “Thank Talos—You aren’t hurt.”

“…Vilkas?” She feels small and confused and afraid. Part of her questions if he is really there. Of all the places to run into the Companion’s Harbinger, she did not expect it to be the streets of _Riverwood_ while a dragon rains Oblivion on innocent people.

 _There’s a dragon._ The Dragonborn leans over and snatches up her sword. She inhales slowly and calms her nerves. It is difficult to not panic when she can hear the screams of others ringing through the night. It is her call to arms: she must slay the beast and stop its rampage. Leilani begins to shake again. She steps past Vilkas and peeks around the corner of the inn, only to gasp and turn around. The woman bolts past Vilkas, seizing him by one arm and dragging him in the process. It is Leilani’s turn to _run_ and haul him out of harm’s way; she scarcely reaches Riverwood’s eastern perimeter when she hears the flying lizard behind her roar a challenge.

 _“Yol toor!”_ the shout uses two words, and she vaguely remembers Argneir rattling off a lecture about how more words means more power. Leilani doesn’t have time to think further; she shoves Vilkas in front of her and uses her body to intercept the flames.

 _“Fo!”_ The Dragonborn’s scream is as agonizing as her will to invoke a shout, to say anything at all that might stop the inferno in its tracks. The frost breath she spews isn’t enough; some of the flames lick her armor and the metal heats up. Her cries of pain cause the dragon to begin laughing in front of her.

“Ah… _dovahkiin_ does not know… Even if you possess… _sos…_ blood…” The dragon cackles and stalks her, tail whipping side-to-side. _“Dir ko mah!”_

It translates to _die in terror,_ but Leilani is sick of dying. She does not want to die at the hands of an asinine beast whose ego is larger than its brain. She can’t die, not when her death means the dragon will lay waste to all of Riverwood.

 _It will kill Vilkas._ The Dragonborn hisses. She forces herself to stand upright. Her blue eyes reflect all of the frustration she feels at her tribulations in life. From the Forgotton Ones cult to the Silver Hand, the Companions, and Namira and everything inbetween, Leilani unleashes a growl at the dragon. It does nothing but make the flying reptilian _laugh_ and howl in amusement. The woman’s pride stings, but she hefts her silver-steel blade up and holds it at the ready. The dragon sees her stance and calms. It’s tail flickers side-to-side, effortlessly swatting away arrows and spears as it unfurls its wings to full length and hisses.

“… _Mey…_ To think… this weak _dovahkiin_ … Could defeat me?” The dragon snaps forward in a flurry of teeth and talons. Leilani brings up her sword as it strikes her and throws her backward; her blade snaps in half from the force. Part of the sword remains embedded in the dragon’s mandible.

She hears Vilkas shout for her nearby. She opens her eyes and sees the remains of a fence around her point of impact. Hay is scattered across a yard and chicken eggs lay crushed under her body. She picks herself up and stares at the dragon lurching forward, tearing past Vilkas with no concern for the mortal. Leilani’s eyes land on her broken silver-steel blade, the shard laying haphazardly out of dragon’s body. She inhales a deep breath and shouts once the beast is close enough, _“—Fus! Ro! Dah!”_

Unrelenting Force propels the broken blade through the dragon’s throat. It severs the spine and flies out into the night sky after, landing in a cluster of hay piles after. Leilani staggers forward and falls to her knees in front of the winged reptilian. She stares the dead creature in the eyes as a gust of wind comes racing through the area. The dead _dov_ ’s body begins to break apart into glowing orange pieces. The dragon flakes away until nothing but a skeleton remains. Leilani flinches when the wind picks up and the dragon’s soul comes racing at her. It seizes her body and pours down her throat, filling her lungs and gifting her knowledge and strength she did not know she could have. The woman collapses on the ground by the time it’s over. She clutches at her throat and gasps for air. Her head feels dizzy and the world spins in circles around her. Someone is at her side and saying her name, but her mind succumbs to a haze of black as she passes out.

When she comes to, Leilani Whitemane is in an inn room. The layout is familiar enough for her to recognize it as the Sleeping Giant Inn’s room, but when she looks at the packs on the floor it is clear it is not _her_ room.

 _I didn’t have a room,_ the Dragonborn remembers. _They were rented._

The woman’s body is sore. She struggles to sit up. Her arms do not want to cooperate, but they oblige after she clenches her teeth and forces herself through the pain. The woman pauses at the realization much of Adrianne’s armor, the armor she was lent _specifically_ under the condition she return it intact, is damaged beyond repair. Parts of it have been burnt off, large areas are charred beyond recognition, and it is only sheer luck that enough of it holds together for her to stare at. Leilani flinches when she sees part of her clothes underneath suffered the same: her shirt’s sleeves and part of the bodice have large holes. Her breeches have faired better, but the waistband feels rough where parts of it are terribly singed.

She stares at blank patches of skin where faint scars linger. In the back of her mind, she knows it shouldn’t be possible: she should have deep, nasty burns from taking a _Yol_ head-on. She feels for her hair and her eyes water at the realization her hair is mostly untouched. The black locks remain pulled back in a tight bun, but they are there. Leilani inhales slowly and thanks the Divines. It would take far too long to grow her hair back out, and she detests the way her hair looks between _short-short_ hair and her current length.

“I broke my sword.” She frowns at the thought. Her hands go to her empty sheathe and she sighs. It will take a long time to collect the materials for a new one, but she will get it done and smith it when it’s ready. Leilani bites her lip and turns her attention to the inn room once more. _Whose is this?_

The answer comes in a soft knock. Leilani swings her legs over the bed’s edge in time for the door to open and a sharp inhale to come from the other person. The Dragonborn stiffens when her gaze falls on the Companion’s Harbinger. It lasts only a moment, because dismay is overruled by _relief_ he is intact and alive. Her gaze softens and she looks away quickly.

“Vilkas.”

“Leilani,” the Companion’s response is soft and uncertain. Vilkas holds a set of clean clothes in his hands; he clears his throat. “The—The innkeeper. Delphine. She had this on hand. Said to give it to you. Wanted to say thanks for… For killing the beast.”

Leilani watches him as he walks to the bedside. Vilkas holds the clothes out to _her_ rather than setting them down. The man looks nervous. It confuses her: she does not remember Vilkas as _nervous_. She remembers him as an asshole who shut her out because she’s Dragonborn. Her mood sours but Leilani takes the clothes regardless. For a moment, her hand brushes his and both individuals freeze and look at each other. The depth in Vilkas’s brown gaze is extraordinarily soft. Leilani feels heat rise in her cheeks; she forces her gaze away before the feeling overwhelms her.

“Is this,” the woman picks at the clean garments, holding one up and studying it. “Is this your room?”

“…Well. It _was._ Not,” Vilkas bites his lip. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” She turns over the dress in her hands. It is a dark red color with a flowing skirt and high neckline. Leilani frowns and looks down at her broken armor and burnt clothes. Her face flushes pink. She averts her gaze. The woman opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

The room falls silent, split between a nervous Harbinger and sullen Dragonborn.

Vilkas is the first to budge. The man clears his throat. Leilani frowns and peers at him while he shuts the door and steps forward. “—I— I need to talk. To _you_. About… When you left. What happened. What I said—”

“There’s not much to talk about.” Leilani cuts him off. She doesn’t have qualms undoing the burnt and damaged parts of her armor and throwing them aside. The woman holds a dress in one hand and hesitates. Her eyes narrow on Vilkas and the man blinks, perplexed and confused. It sinks in a moment later and he hastily excuses himself for her to change. Leilani tosses her burnt attire aside and pulls on the dress. It is warm, soft, and smooth to the touch. The bodice has support sewn into it which she appreciates.

She feels tired. She wants nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep for a thousand years. Leilani resists the urge. It is technically not her inn room; she can flop on a bench in the main hall and snooze there. The woman struggles to her feet and sways a moment. Her body still hurts, but she revels in the natural healing rate of a Dragonborn. It feels inhumane, almost _alien,_ for her body to mend itself so quickly. 

Vilkas doesn’t knock again. Leilani doesn’t know if the man sits outside and waits, or if he’s gone on his way to some other part of the inn. She tries not to think about it, about _him_. Her chest aches. Her stomach begins uneasy flips as she smooths her dress down and walks to the door. A wayward pack’s strap loops around her foot and she squawks and narrowly avoids tripping, grabbing unto the wall for balance. The bag splays open. Leilani bites her lip and glances at the door. She looks at the bag. The woman kneels next to it with the intention of putting everything back inside, but she stops as her eyes land on one item half-visible among maps, potions, and coinage.

It’s a pendant. A set of pendants, specifically, on a single, beautiful, bronze-colored chain. There are six large bronze beads hanging on the chain; each of them has elaborate Nordic inscriptions referencing the Divine _Mara._ A large, circular amulet at the base dangles precariously; it has a stunning piece of polished malachite as the focal point of the amulet. Impressions of Nordic knots intertwining but never ending within one another are visible circling the malachite. Leilani does not have knowledge on all of Skyrim, but she recalls enough about the _Amulet of Mara_ to know its purpose: it is worn when a person wishes to display an openness toward marriage. Her heart jumps in her throat at the realization that it belongs to Vilkas.

The Dragonborn cannot find it in her to put it back. The rest of the bag’s contents she repacks; the woman shoves the bag to the side where no straps threaten to pull her down. She rises to her feet and tentatively opens the door. When she looks out, she sees the hall is full of other patrons. It is mid-day. Leilani shuts the inn room behind her and tentatively scans the hall. She finds Vilkas tucked into a corner, back to the world, holding his head in his hands and looking miserable. Leilani bites her lip. She walks over, taps the Harbinger on the shoulder, and holds up the amulet when he looks.

“Is this yours?” She asks softly.

The Harbinger stares. After a second of deliberation, he takes the amulet and turns back to his table. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

She freezes when the man puts it on. Her heart drops in her chest. The Dragonborn cannot move, only stare and sputter out syllables vaguely resembling words. “But—You—You’re—”

Vilkas inhales sharply. “Can we talk now? Leilani—”

“Why are you wearing an _Amulet of Mara?!”_ The Dragonborn nearly shouts in shock. She does not, but her eyes are big, confused, and heartbroken. Her arms hang limply at her sides. She probes Vilkas for an answer, but his expression only makes her feel worse. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge the disbelief in her voice, or the flabbergasted stare she maintains.

The Harbinger picks his words slowly. He sounds as nervous as he looks, which does not help the situation, “I—I _thought_ —It would help me be more direct.”

“More direct with what? Reminding me you don’t care?” Her eyes start to water. Patrons stare. She wipes her eyes quickly; she will not cry in front of strangers. Her gaze dims.

An old instinct to flee briefly rises in her chest, but Leilani is not the same person she has been over the past sixteen years. She stares at Vilkas, intending to see things play out, even if it hurts her. She notes every little detail on his face, everything from his tense frown to the forlorn gaze in his eyes. She stares without flinching even when he shifts in his seat to look up where she stands. She is vigilant, but not vigilant enough, because the last thing she expects is for the Harbinger to stand up, cup her face, and whisper, “I love you.”

The Dragonborn’s face floods with heat. She stares at Vilkas, stunned into silence.

Vilkas clears his throat. His own cheeks are dusted pink. “I can—Repeat that, if necessary.”

“What?” The Dragonborn lifts a hand to his chest. He’s not in his armor; the feel of a soft civilian shirt comes where her hand lands. She flushes a deep crimson when one of the man’s hands drops to hers on his chest, laying over it and brushing the knuckles.

“I’m not,” the Harbinger bites his lip. His eyes glance at patrons nearby, but the man doesn’t waver. He looks at Leilani and holds her gaze. “… _good_ at… Always being clear. Not when I’m off the battlefield. I wasn’t—In Whiterun—I wasn’t trying to say—”

His words become tongue-tied. Leilani can hear his soft curses under his breath. Vilkas inhales and tries again.

“I wanted you to not… be _pressured._ Being… Dragonborn. Suddenly. It’s a big change—I didn’t—I was worried trying to—Me being there—Like that—With you—It would hinder your… Adjustment.” It’s clear he struggles to find the right words to say. The man bites his lip and looks to the side. “I didn’t realize doing _that_ would make you think…”

“You shut me out,” the woman says quietly. “It hurt me, Vilkas. I thought—I thought something was wrong with me. I agonized over it.” She can see the guilt in his eyes, deep and compelling.

“I’m sorry.” The Harbinger says. Both his hands now lay over hers. He feels warm.

 _Warm. Safe._ The Dragonborn shuts her eyes. Her head swarms with thoughts. She needs time to breathe, so she turns her attention to the other question on her mind. “—Why are you in Riverwood?”

When she looks, she sees Vilkas frown. His hands release hers; one hand rises to rub the back of his head. His hair is free, falling and framing his face. It looks soft enough to touch. The man meets her gaze and quietly intones, “—I learned you were at High Hrothgar. Near the summit. I remembered—You kept on saying—Mentioning—You wanted to see the stars from the summit. The Throat of the World. That it’s like… Little bits of Aetherius peeking through.”

“You remembered that?” Leilani stares, surprised.

“I hiked up there and the old Greybeard—The—Um.” Vilkas clears his throat. “Master Arngeir? He turned me away. Said it was dangerous. I’m not trained in the Voice.”

“Why did you go to Riverwood?” She begins to wring her wrists. Her nerves are on edge, wracked and fragile.

The Harbinger frowns. “I wanted to see you. Figured you would come here after. It’s a common spot for Nords hiking over the pass.”

Most of the onlookers have since returned to their business. A bard plays a catchy tune in the background. It is soothing, but not enough to calm the Dragonborn. She watches Vilkas with uncertainty. After a moment, he takes her hands in his. His lips contort into a tight frown.

“Leilani,” Vilkas pauses until her eyes flicker back to his. She recognizes the warmth seeping through. She’s seen it before, utterly adoring and yearning for more. The Harbinger’s gaze softens. One of his hands traces her knuckles as he speaks, “I love you. I’d be glad to stand at your side until the Divines take us, if—If you’ll have me.”

He doesn’t make a move to kiss her. It dawns on her he is waiting for her to take initiative. He’s almost as stubborn as he was a child, but he’s softened up over the years. She likes that about him. No, she _loves_ that about him. Her hands rise and the Harbinger makes no effort to keep them; Leilani cups his face and traces his jawline with her thumbs. She can feel his soft exhale. The woman stares up at him, momentarily lost in the beautiful brown eyes looking back at her. She smiles. “I want that.”

The woman cranes her neck to kiss him. Vilkas is still a moment before he kisses her back. The smile on his face when she draws back is terribly infectious, just short of a grin, and it’s the last thing she sees before Vilkas is kissing her again, and again, and again, wrapping her up in his arms and holding her as close as time allows. It dawns on Leilani she’s been close to home all along.

Home is where he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (background music: 'venus' by sleeping at last)  
> sometimes endings just have a way of working themselves out, y'know?  
> this is the end of silver sight, and technically the end of the consumerism series.  
> thank you to all you amazing readers who stuck with me throughout this  
> ^_^  
> this might be the end of the series but i have some other ideas floating around for skyrim fics focused on brynjolf (again) and mercer frey, on cicero, and one on miraak. still debating which one i want to do, but eventually you'll see me posting again. have a lovely day :D


	51. epilogue part 4: bonus (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of epilogue part 3: home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to write a little extra scene   
> thank you to all my amazing readers throughout this   
> have a good one (heart)

The entire bar, inn, _town_ could be staring and she wouldn’t care. No looks can dissuade her from leaning against the Nord, utterly gleeful wrapped up in his arms. It’s well worth the decades of pain and loss she’s lived through; having Vilkas so close is all she needs to be happy. She wonders if it’s the same for him. Or—She would, if she wasn’t so distracted by the taste of his lips and curve of his smile. He has a way of wriggling into her mind like that; if she isn’t careful, she could just as easily lose herself in him for days.

It seems to be the direction the two are headed. She doesn’t mind.

When the man draws back and exhales, she opens her eyes long enough to see the same grin. The man’s happiness is infectious. She wants to soak it up, bottle it away, and keep it for herself. When the Nord shifts and leans past her lips and jaw to her ear, Leilani pauses. The Harbinger’s next words bring a rush of heat to her face, “—I’d like to show you—How much I adore you—”

“I don’t have a room?” The Dragonborn’s cheeks are pink. She notes the gleam of warmth and mischief emerging in the Harbinger’s brown gaze.

“I do.” Vilkas draws back and takes her hand in one of his own. He brings it to his lips and kisses the knuckles. There is a deep yearning lurking in the depths of his eyes; Leilani knows it is reserved for her. She remembers it from the time spent as the aspect of Namira. When Vilkas leads, she follows him all the way back to the room tucked on the left side of the _Sleeping Giant Inn_. Her heart jumps in her chest and pounds in her ears with every step she takes. No sooner than the two are inside and the door is shut does Vilkas look back at her and seek out her line of sight.

The Dragonborn frowns. “Vilkas? Is something—”

“By the Divines—No, no, just,” the Harbinger steps closer and lets his hands fall to her waist. His hands feel strong and secure. Vilkas purses his lips a moment. “Every time I look at you—You just get—More and more beautiful. I’m pulled to you—” He leans down and kisses her gently, sweetly, slowly, and with all the patience in the world. Leilani presses back; her hands rise to the man’s shirt and she grabs bunches of it in her hands. The Harbinger’s lips perk up into a grin again. He backs away just long enough to mumble a, “Need a hand?”

“I have two of them,” Leilani’s remark makes the man laugh. She is meticulous about easing the shirt up and over Vilkas’s head. It comes off like a dream; the soft fabric gives under her fingers and she tosses it to the side.

The woman’s eyes drop from Vilkas’s face to his chest. She’s seen it before, and from many, many angles, but his muscles and tone make her swallow in awe. He’s far past handsome. He might just be the best-looking man in Skyrim, if her biased opinion is anything to go off. When she looks back up, it dawns on her that he’s caught her staring. He has a gleam of pride in his eyes and a surprisingly cocky smile teasing at the corners of his lips. Leilan’s face flushes red and she struggles to find and piece together appropriate syllables for a sentence. After a moment of sputtering, Vilkas cups her face and kisses her gingerly.

“—It’s okay if you wanna look,” the man whispers. Vilkas takes her hands and puts them on his collarbone. “Or—Touch. Not like you haven’t before.” The latter is an addendum, one he nods at.

Leilani sucks in a long, deep breath. She moves closer to the man and lets her bare hands run up and down his chest. She can hear his sharp intakes, a sure sign of feeling her fingers on his skin, and his shivers. It doesn’t escape her how much _wanting_ seeps into his gaze. She carefully feels out the shape of each of his chest muscles; her hands caress each one and leave her wanting more. When she’s satiated her curiosity, and ogled him long enough, the woman’s hands dance down. Her touch becomes feather light as she reaches for the man’s waistband. Vilkas bites his lip and gently takes her hands in his; he pulls them off. The man lowers his head to the crook of her neck and plants a greedy kiss there, intent on drawing things out a little longer.

“Leilani…” The name sounds wonderful coming from him. _Everything_ sounds wonderful coming from him. The woman’s arms wrap around his torso and cling tightly to him. Her own gasps are tiny in comparison.

The Dragonborn moans when the man’s lips move up and down her neck and collarbone. He has the touch of a god and patience of a saint; she cannot stop trembling next to him, primarily due to the pleasure and lust fogging her brain. When his hands fall on her chest and dip below the neckline, she pants and holds unto him. Her grip tightens when he stops to undo the clasp on the back of her bodice. The dark garment feels constricting; she exhales sharply when the bodice is pulled down. Vilkas draws back and seeks out her gaze. She peers up at him, perplexed by the sudden pause. He suddenly surges forward and steals her lips; the man’s throat rumbles in need and he walks her to the bed. His hands have no qualms fondling her chest; the woman struggles to stay quiet when his rough, calloused fingers massage each breast.

“I want,” Vilkas shudders. The man kisses her lips, her chin, and returns to her jawline and neck. His voice burns with need. “To hear it—To hear you. All of you.”

He bites down and Leilani becomes a cry of pleasure, gripping the man tightly. Vilkas kisses each spot after, but his tenderness is equally matched by passion. His fingers begin to rub her nipples; the cry it elicits causes Vilkas to inhale in delight. He pushes her unto the bed; Leilani complies without hesitation, looking up at the shirtless Nord. His eyes are a storm of _want_ , a compilation of the lust he feels for _her,_ and it leaves her speechless as Vilkas climbs on the bed and over her. His hands go straight to her dress and the man curses when it doesn’t come off right away. Leilani shifts her hips so he can slide it off her. She feels incredibly exposed at that moment: nothing more than thin undergarments covering her groin. But she is with Vilkas, and he is warm and safe and everything good in the world. The woman throws her head back and gasps in bliss when Vilkas lowers himself to her breasts and takes on in his mouth. A hand continues playing with her other one while the man’s tongue laps at her sensitive flesh.

“I,” Leilani says, and it makes Vilkas pause and draw back to look up at her. Her cheeks burn. “I love you. Too.”

“Do you, now?” The Harbinger’s gaze softens, but there is something else hidden in the deep brown depths. His hand falls to her groin and a finger hooks around the garment there. Vilkas sounds calm and composed—so much more than he should be, than he _is_ —as he goes on. “Good—Imagine marrying someone you didn’t love?”

He pulls the garment free. The air hitting her pelvis makes her squirm beneath him. Vilkas catches her gaze and holds it. His long, dark hair is a marvel to feel falling unto her body. She can’t help but sit up enough to cup his face and kiss him, just as the man’s hand returns to her groin and he begins to dip deeper. It is nowhere near enough, but it causes the woman to throw her head back and hiss through clenched teeth.

“Leilani,” this time her name is a whisper. She meets his gaze. Vilkas’s eyes are deathly soft, infinitely warm, and full of adoration as his finger presses inside. She is a sopping mess; her muscles suck him in and her mind struggles to process anything more than the digit pushing its way through her. Vilkas leans forward and kisses her while he begins to pump his finger in and out. His words are a distant message against the blazing heat building in her abdomen. “—I love you. I _love_ you.”

He grins when her muscles squeeze him. Vilkas’s other hand drops to trace circles around the woman’s clit. Leilani cries out and begins to grind against his hands, hips moving desperately to try and reach orgasm. When she has the cliff in sight, when she’s nearing her precipice, the sensations suddenly stop. Vilkas retracts his finger. The woman squirms against him; she whines and writhes for more. Leilani soon calms, but her glare is evident. It only lasts a minute before fading away; she loves the man too much to care, especially when there’s so much left to do. Vilkas moves back and shifts to pull off his breeches. The under garments follow. The man’s erection is proud and tall, occasionally twitching. Leilani’s eyes grow big as she stares at it. She has forgotten the length of the man. Her seed of worry must be evident, because Vilkas pauses.

“If you’ve… changed your mind,” the Harbinger says softly. “That’s—It’s alright. To stop here. Leilani. Or—Try something else. We don’t—”

“I want to,” the woman hiccups. She grabs the bed sheets and stares at him. “I want _you,_ Vilkas. I love you. I—”

She needn’t say anything more, because the Companion surges forward and claims her lips with his own. It takes a moment to realize the man’s begun to tremble, his own anxiety shining through moments of passion and splendor. She opens her legs and lets her hands fall on his face, with one soon moving to play with his hair. Vilkas pants against her. His hand lowers to his shaft; the man rubs the head of it against her vulva. It feels so hot and blissful Leilani can’t help but instinctively buck her hips at him. Vilkas positions himself and draws away long enough to meet her gaze. Then, the man kisses her again, and he begins to push inside. Leilani’s hands tighten on his hair and neck, she shakes and whimpers as the Harbinger penetrates her. Her cries become sharp, strangled noises of need as he groans and sheathes himself in her heat. Her muscles struggle to embrace him.

“Let me—Let me know,” the Harbinger’s face is deep red. He struggles to form words. “—When to—If—You’re good.”

She can barely offer more than a gasp of syllables. The man stretches her and fills her with an engorged, twitching heat. It fills her in places she forgot she could feel until that moment. Her legs spasm and struggle to hook around the man. Leilani’s head falls back and she exhales sharply, “—I feel—All of you. Vilkas. Vilkas,” she repeats his name as her hips shift and suck him in another centimeter. The woman clings to him, desperate to keep him there and make him move all in one. “Please—I want—I need you. I love you. I love you so—”

She cries out loudly when the man begins to thrust. Her body is wracked with shakes; she presses herself against the Harbinger and holds him as tightly as time allows. Vilkas inhales and slowly withdraws his hips; he moans in need before gyrating forward. “Leilani…!”

It is not the sweaty, fast-paced session she expects. It is a scene of mutual adoration and enamor, of reassurance and caresses. Vilkas keeps his pace slow and steady as he thrusts into her. Every gyration has her moaning beneath him or crying out for more. The man kisses her between each roll of hips. He kisses her, her neck, her chin, her nose, everything and everywhere his lips can get a grip on becomes prey for his kisses. He leaves the marks of affection in the crook of her neck, on her shoulders, and across her breasts. He occasionally draws back to seek out her gaze, giving her beautiful smiles and cheeky grins before stealing her air again. It feels like an eternity passes, one hopelessly lost in the man’s body, before the Harbinger stops and exhales.

Leilani opens her eyes and stares at him. Her face is red, but the blush doesn’t bother her. When Vilkas leans down to kiss her, she rises to meet him half-way. The man’s throat rumbles in satisfaction. His hands fall to her cheeks and he cups her face as he draws back. His eyes seek out every last shred of her attention as he goes on, “—How are you feeling?”

“Loved,” she smiles at him. He smiles back.

“I love you,” he reminds her.He looks pleased at the dusting of pink on her face. The man inhales slowly, “Leilani—I’m going to move more. If it’s—If it becomes too much—Just say the word. We can stop. We can…” He trails off and clears his throat. Vilkas stares at her, looking surprisingly serious. “Okay?”

The Dragonborn nods. “I trust y—”

Her back arches and she gasps when the Harbinger rolls his hips into her. The man’s hands move to her waist; he grips her hips and begins to thrust vigorously into her hips. The two’s pelvises start smacking after a minute, the sound of skin-on-skin arousing the Dragonborn even more. She throws her head back and drags nails down the Harbinger’s back as he begins to grunt and breathe heavily. The bed starts to shake from the two’s movements; Vilkas holds her in place while he penetrates her. The sensation of having so much leave and fill her over and over is enough to make Leilani gasp and her toes curl. She hears Vilkas grunt in satisfaction; the man soon pushes her down on the bed while he arches his back and thrusts in increasing fervor. He no longer takes the time to do long strokes; his desperation for release seeps through and the Harbinger begins to thrust inches instead of his full length.

The head of his cock is engorged and hot against her muscle walls. Each time it drags out or pushes forward, Leilani’s legs tremble and she cries out for him. Vilkas’s fingers dig into the woman’s hips and he begins to grunt and growl as his release crawls higher. He slams into her and leans forward, pushing her deeper into the bed and giving himself more momentum to thrust. It is too much for her to last long. In the throes of heat, in the haze of passion, Leilani bucks her hips and orgasms on the man. Her cry is loud and wanton; she collapses beneath him as he continues to thrust. The seconds of pleasure stimulate her already sensitive skin; she whimpers and whines in overwhelming ecstasy as the Harbinger continues to pump in her. When his climax crashes over him, he presses all of himself in and pushes his hips as close to hers as he can get. The man towers over her sweat-riddled form. She clings to him while he thrusts remaining ejaculate into her. His deep pants lessen slowly over time.

The two lay like that for a long while. Vilkas holds unto her and she wraps herself around him. The man doesn’t pull out; Leilani exhales softly at the feeling of him inside her, flaccid. She and him have made a mess of the bed, but neither seem to mind. Vilkas continuously whispers to her how amazing it was while her mind drifts lazily through thoughts of him. Everything about the moment is perfect and surreal; everything about the moment reflects the two’s journey as people.

“I love you,” she musters up the words at one point. Her blue eyes lock with his brown. “You make me feel safe.”

Villkas flushes red. The man’s smile betrays the joy he derives of the statement. He kisses her deeply and his hips begin to gyrate and grind against hers. Slowly, she can feel his erection return. The woman gasps and buries her head in his neck. Vilkas kisses her temple and tells her, “You make me happy.”


End file.
